Somehow, Snoopie invariably did this. He was lucky in more respects than one.
From each side Hen and you sidled toward him and put your bobbers as near his as you dared.
“G’wan!” objected Snoopie, with shrill emphasis. “What you kids comin’ here for? Go find your own places. I got this first.”
Presently, to your agony, Hen likewise jerked out an astonished pout.
“Ain’t you had any bites yet?” he fired triumphantly at you.
“How deep you got your hook?” you replied.
Hen held his line so that you might see. To miss no chances, you measured accurately with a reed. Once more you adjusted your cork, moving it up a fraction of an inch, and you spat on your baited hook.
Again you threw in, landing your now irresistible lure the length of your pole and line from the shore.
“Quit your splashin’!” remonstrated Snoopie. “I had a dandy bite, an’ you scared him away. Darn you! can’t you throw in easy?”
The ripples caused by your bobber widened in concentric circles and died. You watched and waited. A kingfisher dived from his post upon a dead branch, and rising with a minnow in his bill to show you how easy it was, dashed away, laughing derisively.