“Well, it’s never too late to let them out again,” Dorothy said, coolly.
“Will you promise to be quiet, Dorothy?”
“I promise nothing, Jim Barlow!”
“Oh, come now; don’t act contrary!”
“It’s not me who’s contrary, and you know it very well.”
“You said you were going back to camp. Why don’t you go?” Molly flung at them, tauntingly.
“Well, by cracky, we should; it would serve you right,” Gerald responded, slightly impatient. “You girls have no right to treat us this way. We brought you with us to give you a good time, and it seems that you might respect our wishes a little. No one can catch fish with a regular gab-fest going on on the bank.”
“Go along and don’t bother us,” admonished Dorothy.
At that instant her floater began to bob fiercely up and down. There was a strong tug on her line, and the reel began to revolve at a high rate of speed, as Mr. Fish, evidently aware that in snapping what appeared to be a nice, fat fly, he had gotten decidedly the worst of it, made a desperate effort to get away.
“Hold him!” cried Molly, rising on the bank and waving her arms excitedly.