Part 20 (1/2)
”Why, Big, what is it?” I cried eagerly.
”Don't frighten him. He has seen the ghost of an old c.o.c.k shark,” cried Bob Chowne grinning.
”Oh, I don't know,” he panted. ”Something soft, and cold, and alive.”
”Why, it was a jelly-fish,” we said together. ”Did it sting?”
”No. You wouldn't find jelly-fishes in a hole like that. It felt like a tremendously great polly-squiggle with a big parrot's beak, and my hand nearly went in.”
”Get out!” said Bob, ”there are no big ones.”
”How do you know?” retorted Bigley. ”That felt just like a large one.”
”Did he take hold of you with his suckers?” I said.
”No, I didn't give him time.”
”If it had been a polly-squiggle it would have got you fast directly with its suckers,” I said oracularly.
”Never mind what it was, old Big. Go in and fetch it out again.”
”No; one of you two go, I don't like,” said Bigley. ”You can't see where you're putting your hand; and suppose he bites it off?”
”Why, then, you could have a wooden peg,” said Bob sneeringly. ”Here, come out, my poor little man, and let me go in. I'll soon fetch out my gentleman, you see if I don't. Here, come out.”
Bob Chowne never meant to go in. His face said as much as he looked round at me; but his words had the effect he intended, for Bigley grunted and went back as far as the narrow crack in the grotto would allow, and boldly thrust in his hand.
”Mind, Big,” I said seriously, ”be ready to s.n.a.t.c.h away your fist.”
He did not answer, but we heard him draw his breath hard; then there came a splas.h.i.+ng noise, and directly after our school-fellow backed towards us.
”I've got him,” he shouted, his voice sounding hollow and strange.
”What is it?”
”I dunno,” he cried, and then, wrenching himself round, he dropped something soft down upon the rock.
”Why, it's a crab!” I cried.
”A soft one,” shouted Bob. ”He can't nip now.”
As he spoke he poked the curious-looking object with his finger, making it wince and threaten with its claws, but they were perfectly soft, and it was evident that the creature had only just crept out of its old sh.e.l.l, and was hiding away in the dark hole waiting for the new armour to form.
”Well, he is a rum one,” said Bob, growing bolder. ”Why, he's just like a counterfeit is when you pull his tail out of a whelk sh.e.l.l.”
”Not quite so soft,” I said, gaining confidence and handling the crab in turn, for it was not so fleshy feeling as the back part of hermit crabs, which we called counterfeits in our part of the world.
”What shall we do with if?” said Big. ”It isn't good to eat now.”
”Kill the nasty, bloaty thing, and throw it in for bait for the fishes.”