It was high time, indeed, that somebody came to the rescue, for behold, Zu-zu’s cork was completely out of sight, and her pole, pulled by an invisible force, was sliding into the water!
“It’s a pickerel—it’s a big pickerel!” cried Tom. “I saw his tail!”
He sprang for the pole—and at the very moment, with a bound and a splash, that blundersome Bob bolted into the water, from the other side, and made for their spot, laying a course that would cut exactly across Zu-zu’s line.
“Go back, Bob! Bob, go back!” ordered Ned, furiously.
But Bob swerved not. He merely flirted the water out of his ears, as if to say: “I don’t hear you,” and ploughed on, barking his defiance.
Mr. Pickerel took alarm. Any fish might, with Bob’s legs, working like the flappers of an immense turtle, bearing down upon him. He darted for cover. The line grew taut—and then relaxed, limp and lifeless, while the thrill all went out of the pole in Tom’s eager hands.
“He broke the hook!” mourned Tom, hauling in.
“Oh, Bob!” accused Ned.
Bob clambered up, shook himself, and hied into the woods once more. The bayou was free for all, and he saw no reason why he should not swim in it. He certainly had to cross, some way.
“He was longer than my arm!” asserted Tom, grieved, and gazing with regretful eyes at the worthless shank dangling where the pickerel ought to have been.