“What for?”

“To put the fish in?”

“You go and ketch ’em first, lad, and by and by I’ll come round that way with one under my arm, and you might give a fellow an eel, if you get one.”

“You shall have all the eels, Jem.”

“Thank-ye. Then look here! you bait one line with the biggest worms you can find, and do you know the penstock?”

“What, down in the deep corner, under the trees?”

“Yes; it’s ten foot deep there. You fish right on the bottom, in that corner, and you’ll have some sport.”

“Hallo!” cried Mercer, laughing. “I say, Burr, junior, hark at him. How does he know? I say, Jem, how many eels have you caught there, eh?”

“You go and begin,” said the man, with a dry laugh. “I won’t forget about the basket.”

“Nor I about the eels. Come on,” cried Mercer. “Here, look sharp; let’s run!”

He caught hold of my hand, raced me through the hop-garden, and out into the lane.

“Now, down here,” he said, as we reached a stile. “We can get across this field, and then into the woods, and—quick, do as I do!”

As he spoke, he dropped down on his knees, and began hunting about at the bottom of the hedge, while I made clumsy efforts to do the same.

“What is it?” I said eagerly.

“Pretend it’s a snake. Can’t you see?”

“No.”

“There’s Eely Burr and old Dicksee coming down the lane, and they’ll want to come too. Hist! don’t look. Lie down; p’r’aps they haven’t seen us, and they’ll go by.”

“But it’s all stinging nettles,” I said.

“What of that? Here, this way; they won’t sting if you go down hard.”

And, throwing himself into a great bed of the venomous weeds, he lay perfectly still, and I was obliged to follow suit, but not without suffering two or three stings.