108 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



more than half a mile from land and in more than 

 six fathoms of water. It grows dusk, for the 

 August evenings are drawing in painfully, and 

 George lights a couple of lanterns and brings out 

 the squid, no longer the inky flabby stuff it looked 

 this morning, but, thanks to much washing and 

 hammering and other special treatment, firm, 

 white, and glistening like china. Each of us has 

 a stout line, carrying two hooks and a heavy lead. 

 We might, it is true, have brought rods for such 

 shallow water, but I have not yet recovered from 

 the memory of an unmanageable conger of twenty- 

 four pounds, which I had caught on the rod on 

 this very ground four years earlier. Exhilarat- 

 ing though the experience may have been, I 

 registered a vow to use handlines for conger on 

 future occasions, at any rate when fishing in the 

 dark, which immeasurably handicaps the angler 

 and favours the escape of the fish. On that parti- 

 cular occasion, the conger all but broke the rod, 

 practically strained the reel beyond recovery, and 

 broke one of my thumb-nails by a sudden down- 

 ward rush that jammed it between the rod and the 

 gunwale of the boat. This was already excite- 

 ment enough for the money, but more was to 

 follow, for, having been coaxed on deck with three 

 or four inches of gaff in its belly, its first act of 

 sweet surrender was with a flick of its tail to 

 kick over our only lamp, which George had 



