“He’s waiting to catch two at a time. He knows how hungry we are, and I shouldn’t wonder if he feels that way himself,” added the grinning Victor.
“Maybe some of the fish saw him throw out the line, and have gone off to bring up their friends, so as to give him a good show.”
“Don’t catch too many, Deerfoot. We don’t need more than fifty or a hundred.”
Mul-tal-la said nothing, but his teeth showed. He was enjoying the quiet fun. The Shawanoe acted as if he heard nothing. The line rested lightly in his fingers, which were so delicately poised that he was sure to feel the slightest tug or twitch, and he kept his eyes on the surface of the turbid stream.
Suddenly he gave a jerk and rapidly hauled in the line, hand over hand. When the hook came creeping out of the current the bait was gone, and no fish was in sight.
The brothers snickered.
“Did you ever know of meaner fish?” asked Victor; “that hook was fast in his gills, but he twisted it loose. It wasn’t fair. I hope Deerfoot doesn’t feel bad.”
“I saw something like the tail of a fish as he flirted off,” added George. “I guess he doesn’t know who is fishing—that is, who is trying to fish.”
Never a word did Deerfoot speak. He baited his hook with the utmost care, and in obedience to an old superstition which prevailed even at that day among fishermen, spat upon the bait before casting it into the water.
“Ah, that’ll fetch ’em!” exclaimed George, smacking his lips in anticipation of the coming feast. “No fish can refuse such a bait as that.”