Reginald muttered something between his teeth, and walked toward the rock where the Princess was standing. She gave him a look of consolation. Toots was clambering up beside her. It was a good place from which to watch John.
"Go away," said the Princess, drawing her short skirts about her. "Go away; you smell of grubs."
But she held out her hand to Reginald and smiled on him in her most fascinating manner. Toots went and stood by the side of John. At that moment the big man gave a sharp tug at the crooked pole, and a shining pickerel over a foot long lay flopping on the stones. Toots viewed the fish at close range with bulging eyes, and said:
"Why, I know him. It's the father of the little pickerels."
"That so?" said John, sticking another grub on his hook and dropping it into the pool again. "Well, we'll eat him fried for supper just the same."
Toots' lip quivered. "Where will the little pickerels get another father?" he asked.
"They don't need any," said John. "Grandfather Pickerel will look after them. He's a wise old chap. Nobody's going to get a chance to fry him in a hurry. I've hooked him half a dozen times, but I've never had a chance to fry him yet."
"Did he get away?" asked Toots.
"Well, I should say he did. You never see more than the tip of the old sinner's nose. When he's given you a glimpse of that, he bites off the line and flops back into his hole."
Toots reflected for several moments, and then inquired: "What becomes of the hook, John?"