“No, no. When a bass swallows your hook they call it a ‘strike.’”
“Who calls it a strike, the bass?”
“No, everybody calls it that.”
“Well, all I can say, I don’t blame a bass for striking then. I’d strike, too, if I was in his place.”
“You? not much, you’d never strike. You’d just wait till somebody came along and took the hook out of your mouth,” was Ben’s merry comment.
“How do you do the fishing?” inquired Bob, apparently unmoved.
“Why, we go out in boats, you know. Skiffs. Those St. Lawrence skiffs are beauties too, let me tell you,” said Jock.
“But how do the skiffs go?” persisted Bob. “By steam?”
“No, no. We’ll have boatmen. Ethan will pull one and his son the other, and two of us will go in each. It’s great sport.”
“It must be. You don’t know what a load you’ve lifted from me. I almost gave up when I thought I’d have to work. It doesn’t agree with me. Never did. My mother has noticed it ever since I was born. But she’s the only one who understands me. Hello, here’s the mogul!”