“As you’ve been fishing before, you know what to do,” whispered Mercer; “only don’t be in a hurry, give ’em plenty of time, and don’t strike till they take your float right down.”
Half an hour passed away, and my attention began to be drawn from my float to watch the birds that sailed over the pool, or the swallows that skimmed it in search of flies.
“Not deep enough,” said Mercer suddenly, and, taking out his line, he adjusted the float higher up, and I followed his example.
Then we began to fish again; but with no better result, and I looked round at Mercer.
“Oh, it’s no use to be in a hurry,” he said. “Sometimes they won’t bite, and then you have to wait till they will. But look, something’s at mine.”
I looked at his float, which had given a slight bob, and then another; but that was all.
“Off again. Didn’t want worms,” he said; “wants paste.”
There was another long pause.
“Not deep enough,” said Mercer again. “Ought to have plumbed the depth.”
He altered his float, and I did the same, and we compared them to see that they were about alike, and the fishing went on, till my companion decided that we ought to have fresh worms, and selected a fine fresh one for my hook, and one for his own before throwing the old ones out into the water.