Hans Dunnerwust’s fat hands fairly shook as he disengaged the line and tried to get the hook out of the pout’s mouth.
“Wow! Dunder und blitzens!” he screeched, dropping the pout with surprising suddenness and executing a war dance on the shore, while he caressed one of his fingers from which oozed a tiny drop of blood.
“Shimminy Gristmas! I ditn’d know dot dose troudt had a sdinger like a rattlesnake. I vost kilt!”
He hopped up and down like a toad on hot coals.
“Hello! What’s the matter?”
Frank Merriwell came round the angle of the rocky shore at that moment, seated in one of the canoes.
“Why are you dancing?” he asked.
Hans subdued the cry that welled to his lips, trying to straighten his face and conceal every evidence of pain.
“I shust caught a troudt,” he declared, with pride, “und scracht mineselluf der pushes on.”
He held up the little horned pout that was still on the hook.