You may learn the same truth from sea-sickness
in half the time, and in a more convincing
manner, realising experimentally and beyond
doubt that your heart and your liver have
strings to them and get pulled into your throat,
and go up and down like the boat, only always
going down when the boat goes up, and coming
up when it goes down. Then you begin to feel
the truth of the proverb, "Hope comes to all
except the lost and the sea-sick."

I was roused from a painful lethargy by the
sound of something whizzing and spinning in the
boat. It was a snipe-billed gore-fish, dancing and
pirouetting, and entangling the fisherman's line
—the first fish. To my sickly notion, it looked
ill and giddy, as I was—it did me good to see
any living thing in the same plight—and when
Pierre senior put three lines into my hands, my
fingers certainly closed on them, though in a
helpless kind of way. I noticed, even then,
they were horsehair lines, nearly a quarter of
an inch in diameter, beautifully plaited like a hair
watch-guard, loaded at every yard, and baited
with sand-launce. I believe Pierre explained
they were weighted with lead sinkers of from
six to eighteen pounds apiece, to counteract
the strength of the tide, and to remain at different
depths, the lightest almost floating. When
he brought me a stout cord in addition, the
thickness of flag halliards, having a large meat-
hook at the end baited with slices of mackerel,
and balanced with thirty pounds of lead for
bottom fishing, and whispered in my ear the
magic word "conger!" I certainly felt better;
the prospect of the excitement of getting a good
conger "on" almost giving me an appetite on
the spot.

The first good tug at my horsehair lines acted
on me like a strong tonic, and I was surprised
how soon I forgot all the ailments of the sea in
the busy employment of hauling home dancing
gore-fish, and mackerel weighing three or four
pounds, and whiting pollack of eight and ten,
as fast as ever I could get them into the boat,
bait my hooks with fresh eels, and get the lines
out again. We were all three fishing, and in
the course of an hour I should judge we had
upwards of forty fine fish of different sorts,
which is rather more rapid sport than the fresh-
water fisherman experiences, whilst most of the
fish fight quite as gamely as trout. The excitement,
by this time, made me disregard all the
pitching of the boat or the drenchings from
occasional waves. Then came a tug at the
conger line, like a strong ringer pulling a bell.
Dropping all the others, I held on with both
hands.

"Give him line, sir," said Pierre; "let him
run, but mind he has no slack; steady!" he
cried, as he saw the cord run through my fingers
so fast that it made them burn and tingle again.
"Steady! he's too good a fish to lose," and he
came to my assistance. Whenever our fish
slacked the cord by doubling, we hauled on him,
keeping a gentle hand on his mouth, but giving
him his head wnen he was inclined to bolt, and
managing him like a restive horse. He
certainly pulled like one. It was as much as ever
my entire strength could hold him. I asked
old Pierre what he judged the weight of the
fish to be? " Near upon seventy pounds, sir,"
he replied; "but it is quite time he was in the
boat, and we knew for certain."

We tired master conger a bit by letting him
run and half drown himself; then gradually
shortening his line till we got sight of him—
great, black, writhing serpent that he was,
lashing up the foam with his tail, and barking
at us fiercely when his head came out of water.
Pierre soon struck him with our gaff-hook, and
we pulled his twining carcase into the boat.
He measured over seven feet long, and the old
man's estimate of his weight was not exaggerated.
Our conger was a very savage fish—
he gnashed his teeth at us even when held down
with the gaff-hook, and young Pierre, for my
instruction, presented him with a piece of wood
to bite, on which he pretty soon left the marks
of his teeth. It is said congers will bite fingers
with even greater relish—of which fact I have
little doubt. We despatched our prize by first
stunning him, and then cutting the back of his
neck so as to divide his spine.

As the tide began to "make," we got up
anchor and ran back before the wind—pretty
smooth sailing in comparison to what we
experienced before—whilst I resumed my place at
the helm, old Pierre making me steer in through
masses of sunken rocks that gleamed up past
us every minute in a way that made me highly
nervous, in spite of his quick eye, lest a wrong
turn of the tiller should bring us upon them.
However, the old man consoled me with the
assurance that after all six inches was very good
clearance from a rock, and reminded me I had
been a long time without a pipe. This was
quite true, in spite of my boast, and I was not
a little glad of the triumphant excuse that my
tobacco was wet, my lights spoiled, and my pipe
gone. The old fellow was determined to
accommodate me though, for he drew out from his
locker some fine honey-dew and a dry box of
lucifers, loaded a clean "cutty," and tendered
a light. I was better, very much better, but
really doubted if I could face a pipe just now
without a relapse. Still, as it wouldn't do to
be beat, I managed just to keep it alight, but
hereby testify never before or since to have
smoked a pipe in such dreadful discomfort.

When we got ashore, I felt for all the world
like a preserved New York lobster, for my
oilskin wrappings not only kept a great deal of
salt water outside, but held a great deal of salt
water inside, which had washed down my neck
and remained bottled up in the waterproofing.
In fact, when I came to be opened and tapped,
it was surprising to see how much sea-water
was concealed about my person.

Our conger duly appeared next day in the
Guernsey fish-market. Old Pierre had particularly
wished me to try some of him for soup,
assuring me I should not know it from turtle—
it is indeed stated to be really very good but
Guernsey market provided something I preferred