“Coming in hard,” he said, slowly. “I think——. Ah, I’ve got him now! Here he comes!” And then the catch did come—a bit of brushwood, with several dead weeds clinging to it.
“That’s a real fine fish,” said Harry, dryly. “What do you suppose he’d weigh, in his own scales?”
“Oh, give us a rest!”
“The potato is yours, Fred. You can eat it for supper, along with that fine catch.”
“If you say another word, I’ll pitch you into the hole!”
“I never saw a fish exactly like that one. Is it a stickleback, or a hand-warmer?”
Fred did not answer, and Harry said no more, seeing that his chum did not relish the joke. Both baited up afresh, and this time Fred got a real bite, and landed a pickerel weighing close to a pound.
“Now you’re doing something!” cried Harry, heartily. “I’ll give in, you are the best fisherman, after all.”
“It was blind luck, Harry. You may——You’ve got a bite!”
Harry did have a bite, and the strain on the line told that his catch was a heavy one. He had to play his catch a little. Then it came up—a fine lake bass twice the size of the pickerel.