"Don't fight him yet. Give him the line! Give him the line!"
"He's got the line," said Reginald, "and he seems to want the pole, too. Now is the time when fifty yards of silk and a good reel—"
"Here, give me the pole," said John; "we'll see who's master this time."
Then followed a most exciting scene. When at last Grandfather Pickerel's nose appeared above the surface of the pool, John hadn't a dry rag to his back. The big man was amazed to see that the old pickerel made no attempt to bite off the line. When he had him safely landed, the first thing he did was to look in his mouth.
"Well, I'm durned," said John. "The old sinner hasn't a tooth left in his head."
As Toots gazed on the form of the vanquished patriarch, all his pride of conquest was swallowed up in a great wave of pity.
"He'll never swallow any more fish-hooks, will he, John?"
"Well, I guess not," said the big man; "the frying pan will stop all that nonsense."
"It seems a pity to fry the old chap," said Toots. "He's lost all his teeth and can't do any more damage."