Not a Mass would he hear in
Brugeford Chapel of a Sunday, but a-fishing he would go. And if he did
not haul in anything, his curses could be heard by the folk as they went
by to Brugeford.
Well, one Sunday morning he was fishing as usual, and not a salmon had
risen to him, his basket was bare of roach or dace. And the worse his
luck, the worse grew his language, till the passers-by were horrified at
his words as they went to listen to the Mass-priest.
At last young Lambton felt a mighty tug at his line. "At last," quoth
he, "a bite worth having!" and he pulled and he pulled, till what should
appear above the water but a head like an elf's, with nine holes on each
side of its mouth. But still he pulled till he had got the thing to
land, when it turned out to be a Worm of hideous shape. If he had cursed
before, his curses were enough to raise the hair on your head.
"What ails thee, my son?" said a voice by his side, "and what hast thou
caught, that thou shouldst stain the Lord's Day with such foul
language?"
Looking round, young Lambton saw a strange old man standing by him.
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