"Slower," said Lance, panting, as he held on again. "Wait till he makes a rush. I say, did you bring the big gaff hook?"
"No; but that line'll hold any conger you can catch, and I've got the little chopper in the locker when he comes on board. But that isn't a conger."
"'Tis, I tell you. I can feel him trying to get back.—What is it, then?"
"Weed," croaked Hezz in his deep bass.
"You're a weed! It's a big conger, and he has got his tail round a rock or in a hole."
"Let him go, then."
"What? Why he'd shuffle back into his hole, and I should lose him. Wait till he gets a bit tired and gives way a bit."
"Let go, and if it's a conger he'll slack the line and come swimming up to see what's the matter. But you've only hooked a weed."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Lance. "You're a clever one, Hezz. Look, he's coming up quite steady;" and the boy drew in a couple of yards of line.