Every now and then some one struck sharply, trying to make himself believe that roach or dace had taken the bait, but the movement of the float was always due to the line dragging the gravelly ground, or the bait touching one of the many weeds.
The sun was intensely hot, and scorched our backs, and burned our faces by flashing back from the water, which looked cool and tempting, as it ran past our feet.
We fished on, sometimes one handling the rod and sometimes the other—beginning by throwing in the line with whispered words, so as not to frighten the fish that were evidently not there, and ending by sending in bait and float with a splash, and with noise and joking.
“There’s a big one,” some one would cry, and a clod torn out from the bank, or a stone, would be thrown in amidst bursts of laughter.
“Oh it’s not a jolly bit of good,” cried one of the boys; “they won’t bite to-day. I’m so thirsty, let’s have a drink.”
“No, no, don’t drink the water,” I said; “it isn’t good enough.”
“What shall we do then—run after the cows for a pen’orth of milk?”
“I say, look there,” cried George Day; “the tide’s turned. It’s running down. We shall get plenty of fish now.”
“Why, there’s somebody bathing down below there,” cried another of the boys.
“Yes, and can’t he swim!”