“Shall I send for John Caribou?” asked Merriwell. “He has some tobacco.”
Hans glanced at him in a hurt way, then extracted the hook, put on another worm, and resumed his fishing.
A pout bit instantly, and Hans derricked it out as before; but the line flew so low this time that it caught Hans about the neck, and the pout dropped down in front, just under his chin, where it flopped and struggled in liveliest fashion.
“Dake id off!” Hans yelled. “Dake id off!”
Merriwell tried to go to his assistance, but only succeeded in drawing the line tighter about Hans’ neck.
“If you’ll stand still a minute, I can untangle the line, but I can’t do anything while you’re threshing about and screeching that way,” he declared.
The pout flopped up and struck Hans in the face, and thrust the point of one of its fins into his breast as it dropped back.
This was too much for the Dutch boy’s endurance, and the next moment he was rolling on the ground, meshing himself more and more in the snarl of the line, and getting a fresh jab from one of the pout’s stingers at each revolution.
“Hellup! Fire! Murter!” he yelled.