The conger-eel, which occasionally comes up salt-water rivers, is a ferocious fish, with powerful jaws. This was of good size, and struggled so violently, that Digby was afraid of losing hook, and net, and line. The other young fishermen had gone to a little distance, and were busily engaged in hauling in some captives which their skill had taken. Digby, in his eagerness, leaned over so far with the net that, just as he had got the conger into it, he lost his balance, and in he went heels over head. Power nearly followed. The conger got entangled in the net; and Digby’s first impulse, as his head came above water, was to grapple hold of the fish. This he did most effectually, and a tremendous struggle commenced; the conger trying to bite Digby, and Digby determined not to let him go. Power’s feelings were divided between his anxiety for Digby’s safety and his wish not to lose his captive. His shouts called Marshall and Easton, who were not far off. “Haul him out, haul him out!” he cried, lustily. “He’ll make a magnificent dish.”
“Which?” asked Marshall, laughing, “Digby or the fish?”
“Digby, Digby,” answered Power, really thinking that he was in danger.
“No, no,” cried Digby, “I won’t be cooked. Get out the fish first. He’s half mine, though, for I helped to catch him.”
The conger was wriggling about all the time, and Power was making every effort to keep his head away from Digby, whom the fish had apparently a strong wish to bite. Between all parties there was a tremendous amount of laughing, and shouting, and splashing. At last Marshall got hold of Digby’s collar, and out he pulled him, still grasping the net and the fish.
“Don’t let us go till you have got us well up from the water,” exclaimed Digby, panting with his exertions. “If you do, the beast may be getting away, and escape us after all.”
His caution was not unnecessary, for, breaking from the hook, no sooner was Digby’s grasp off him than away he wriggled at a great rate towards the water. It was no easy matter to catch him, for he turned round with his savage head and made desperate bites at the lads, who were in hot pursuit of him.
“Oh, stop him!” shouted Digby, almost crying in his agitation. “Oh, he’ll be off,—he’ll be off!”
Nearer and nearer the water he wriggled; with a hook in his mouth, and the mauling he had got, he was not likely to find much pleasure in his future career; still, life is dear even to fish. He was almost at the edge of the bank, when Marshall seizing his geological hammer, which he had thrown down to help Digby, with it dealt the poor conger such a blow on the tail that in an instant it was paralysed, and though its jaws moved a little, it no longer made an attempt to reach its native element.
It was now voted that dinner-time had arrived, or rather that it was time to begin cooking the fish. Altogether a very good supply had been caught: besides the smelt, Toby brought two grey mullets, a foot in length; these, he said, were rarely caught with the hook, as they suck in their food. They do not often eat living creatures, but grub down at the bottom for offal or weeds. It is a very sagacious fish, and, when enclosed by a net, always makes the greatest efforts to escape by leaping over it, or by seeking for some opening. Only a very perfect net will secure them. In some parts the fishermen form an inner line of straw, or corks, and the mullets leaping over it, and finding themselves still enclosed, do not make a second attempt till there is time to draw them to the shore.