“They’re still-fishin’.”
“Still fishing? Of course they are. Why shouldn’t they be?” inquired Bob.
“Ye’re as green as that city boy I was tellin’ ye of. Still-fishin’ is jest fishin’ still, ye know. Not trollin’ the way I’m goin’ to, but they’re anchored, and are havin’ a try with worms for bait.”
“What do they catch?” said Bob.
“I don’t know what they’re catchin’, but there’s perch there, an’ I presume that’s what they’re fishin’ for. We’ll try the bass, though, a spell longer.”
Ethan rowed slowly in near the shore, and had gone but a short distance before Bob felt the welcome tug upon his line, and, after a contest of a few minutes, succeeded in bringing the struggling fish close to the boat, where it was successfully landed by the boatman. Bob was doing better now and profiting by his mistakes, but Jock had not caught a fish since they had started from the camp.
“What’s the trouble, Ethan? Why don’t I get any?” he said.
“More’n I can tell ye. Bees won’t sting some folks and dogs won’t bite ’em, either. Mebbe it’s the same way with fishes.”
Jock’s ill-luck still continued, however, and although Ethan rowed over the rocky shoal for an hour and a half, not a fish did the eager lad secure. Bob was rapidly becoming an expert, and already had landed a half-dozen large bass, and had lost only three.
“I’ll row ye in-shore a bit,” said Ethan, dropping his oars and taking a tin cup, with which he dipped up some of the water in the bay and quenched his thirst.