With the rising sun a breeze sprang up from the west to add to the discomfort, and presently Indian Jake, unhooking a whitefish, asked:
“How many fish you got, lads?”
“I’ve got four fine ones,” David announced.
“I’ve got three,” said Andy.
“I’ve got three, and that makes ten,” calculated Indian Jake. “That’s all we’ll use this week and next week and th’ week after. They’s no need standin’ here and freezin’, and we might as well go back t’ th’ tilt. Pull in, boys, and we’ll go.”
Indian Jake and David drew in their lines, and proceeded to clear them of ice, but Andy, with his still in the water hole, was making no preparation to leave.
“Come, Andy,” David shouted. “Jake and me are ’most ready to go.”
“I can’t,” answered Andy. “My hook’s snagged on something, and I can’t pull un in.”
“Let me try her,” said Indian Jake, who had wound his line, and was picking up the frozen fish and dropping them into an empty flour bag he had brought for the purpose.