“Just one turn more,” persisted George. “If you knew how Hank will talk after we get back, you’d be willing to keep on a little longer.”
“All right,” agreed Jock, good-naturedly. “We’ll take one more turn, but then we’ll have to go ashore. I don’t want to be out here any longer.”
George made no reply, and began to row with increased deliberation. Slowly the skiff was sent up the bay, but not a strike rewarded his efforts. Still more slowly he took a wider sweep as he reversed the course, never once speaking or taking his eyes from the long lines which trailed far behind in the water. Neither of the boys was expecting anything now, and when two-thirds of the remaining distance had been covered, Jock began to reel his line in, satisfied that the day’s sport was ended.
“One more?” suggested George, pleadingly.
Jock shook his head and continued his occupation.
“You might as well take yours in, too,” said George, sadly, to Bob. “I wish you weren’t in such a hurry. I believe we might get a muscallonge yet.”
“We haven’t been in a hurry,” said Bob. “You’ve given us a great day, George; we’ll never forget it, or you. Hold on a minute. Back water a bit; my hook has caught in some of the grass, I guess.”
George obeyed, but as he rested on his oars, suddenly Bob’s line began to run out with a rush that almost yanked the rod from his hands.
“Grass, is it?” exclaimed George, excitedly. “Hi! Look at that, will you?” he exclaimed a moment later.
About a hundred and fifty feet behind them a monstrous fish leaped from the water, and in a graceful curve plunged into the bay again, but all could see that Bob’s line was fast to him.