“See ’em?”
“Yes,” I whispered; “perch, aren’t they?”
“Why, I thought you knew nothing about fish.”
“I’ve seen pictures of them in books,” I said, “of course.”
“Yes, perch, all but that black, soft-looking chap close to the bottom. He’s a tench. But come on, and let’s get the rods.”
He led the way to the boat-house, a green strip of coarse grass about five feet wide leading to the rough building, and Mercer looked longingly at the boat, which was half full of water.
“We’ll try her some day,” he said; “but she seems very leaky. Here we are.”
As he spoke, he took a couple of rough-looking, unjointed rods from where they were laid across some pegs driven into the side of the building just below the thatch eaves.
“All right,” he said, examining the stout, strong silk lines twisted lightly about them, and the hooks stuck in pieces of cork which were bound on to the butts of the rods. “Now, then, come for the worms.”
He leaned the rods up against the roof of the boat-house, and led me into the open-sided building, where, as described by the keeper, we found an old watering-pot half full of moss, and in this damp moss, and below it, an abundance of fresh, lively-looking worms.