The Exploits of Engelbrecht by Maurice Richardson

haunts these waters. Reputed to be a cousin of the Id’s. Got a very keen sense of humour. He collected one of those new pens that write underwater from one of our members last year.”
    A rattle of musketry on our left denoted that yet another landing party had been repulsed. But still not a bite.
    The Oldest Member looked up from Sir Humphrey Davey’s Salmonia which he had been perusing. “I’m afraid you’re having very poor sport,” he said. “The catch of the day so far is a Seven League Boot.”
    Engelbrecht was down at the reel end of the rod. He rang through on the “phone to ask me to come and take a turn, while he had a chat with the O.M. When he came back his face was set and grim. He was wearing a Frogman’s suit of black india rubber and a clerical collar. “Hook me, pal,” he said, “hook me in the hump.”
    “But dwarfie,” I said, “you’re not going in yourself?”
    “It’s the only way,” he said.
    “But you’re human, aren’t you? You’ll be disqualified.”
    “The O.M. says not. He says it’s all right if you bait your own hook. You’ll hold the rod for me, pal?”
    “Well,” I said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
    “I hope I do too,” he said.
    “Greater love hath no angler than this,” said the voice of the O.M. behind us.
    I fixed the hook tight into the artificial hump and paid out enough line to reach all the way. I gave the hook a final tug to make sure it was good and firm. Then 1 cast. The dwarf-baited hook flew out through the thick night air far over the water. It fell with a light splash. I reeled in a few hundred fathoms to keep him riding on top of the water and gave the line a couple of jerks to make it seem as if he was drowning. Then I lit my pipe.
    Presently I heard Engelbrecht’s voice on the intercom. “They’re coming for me, pal,” he said. “I can see their eyes all round me. It’s just a question which one gets me first. Soon as you hear me holler you got to strike for all you’re worth.”
    Next moment the bell pealed out the Angelus and Engelbrecht’s voice yelled in my ear: “Strike like beggary.” I turned on the donkey engine full steam ahead and struck.
    The line ran out at a rate of knots. There was silence for some time. Then Engelbrecht came through again. “You there, pal? He’s hooked good. It’s the giant pike all right.”
    “How do you know?”
    “He’s swallowed me and I just picked up a Bishop’s mitre with the name Ely on the sweat band. Play him, pal. Play him for all you’re worth. You got to land him before the season ends.”
    In the months that followed I played that pike all over the network of our inland waterways, in and out of drains and culverts and subterranean streams known only to spaeleologists. Sometimes when the line was right out I had to take the train to keep up with him. And always the Oldest Member was at my elbow ready to give sage counsel. “Whatever happens we must head him off from the Fens,” he kept telling me. “Black Fen, which is his home water, is known to he bottomless.”
     
    It was the last week of the season and Engelbrecht had just ’phoned through, very faint, to say that his rations had run out. We were streaking along the Manchester Ship Canal with mighty few fathoms in hand. “I’m afraid we’ve lost him,” said the Oldest Member. “You’ll have to order your little pal to abandon fish.” With a sob in my voice I told Engelbrecht to unhook himself. Suddenly we rounded a bend and caught sight of a bunch of Theological Students out for a walk with the Bishop at their head. The pike must have seen them too. He leapt in a great green-yellow arc for the bank. But he was too weak, and before his jaws could close, the Bishop, an old sportsman if ever there was one, had gaffed him in the gills with his umbrella. The ordination candidates formed a chain, clasping each other by the waist.
    After a tremendous struggle we got him ashore and wired for Doctor Sadismus,