Hans made a wry face.
“Oxcoose me! I vos—— Look oudt!” he squawked, giving the line another terrific jerk. “Shimminy Gristmas! Did you seen dot? Dot cork vent oudt uf sight shust like a skyrocket.”
The bait was still intact and he tossed in the line again.
“Dere must be a poarting house down dere someveres dot don’t half much on der taple, py der vay dose troudt been so hunkry,” the Dutch boy humorously observed. “Look oudt! he vos piting again!”
He gave another jerk, and this time landed a pout double the size of the first.
His “luck” continued, to his unbounded delight; and in a little while he had a respectable string of fish.
“Who told me I couldn’t veesherman?” he exultantly demanded, struggling to his feet and waddling as fast as he could go to where the last pout was flopping on the grass. “He haf swallered dot hook again clean to his toes. Efery dime I haf do durn mineselluf inside oudt to gid der hook!”
The horns of the pout got in their work this time, and Hans stumbled about in a lively dance, holding his injured hand.
“Dose troudt sding like a rattlesnake,” he avowed. “Der peen leetle knifes py der side fins on, und ven he flipflop I sdick does knifes indo him. Mine gootness! Id veel vorser as a horned!”