"We must chop the root off," Lubim decides at last. "Gerassim, go and get an axe! Give me an axe!"
"Don't chop your fingers off," says the master, when the blows of the axe on the root under water are heard. "Yefim, get out of this! Stay, I'll get the eel-pout. . . . You'll never do it."
The root is hacked a little. They partly break it off, and Andrey Andreitch, to his immense satisfaction, feels his fingers under the gills of the fish.
"I'm pulling him out, lads! Don't crowd round . . . stand still. . . . I am pulling him out!"
The head of a big eel-pout, and behind it its long black body, nearly a yard long, appears on the surface of the water. The fish flaps its tail heavily and tries to tear itself away.
"None of your nonsense, my boy! Fiddlesticks! I've got you! Aha!"
A honied smile overspreads all the faces. A minute passes in silent contemplation.
"A famous eel-pout," mutters Yefim, scratching under his shoulder-blades. "I'll be bound it weighs ten pounds."
"Mm! . . . yes," the master assents. "The liver is fairly swollen! It seems to stand out! A-ach!"
The fish makes a sudden, unexpected upward movement with its tail and the fishermen hear a loud splash . . . they all put out their hands, but it is too late; they have seen the last of the eel-pout.
