“There,” he said, “we mustn’t lose sight of him, or he’ll eat his way out if he don’t find another way through the folds. No; I think he’s safe. I’ll hang him here.”
“Here” was the rugged stump of a small branch of one of the nearest trees.
“Now,” he said, “I’ll try and catch one too before we go, and we shan’t have done so very badly.”
“But you’ve cut my hook off,” I said. “How am I to fish?”
“You’ll have to watch me, for I haven’t another hook. Come along. We mustn’t stop much longer, or we shan’t be back to tea. Stand your rod up against that tree.”
He was already half-way back to the penstock and caught up his rod, but no fish had attacked it this time, and we stood side by side once more, leaning against the post, watching his float, as he tried first in one place, then in another, without success.
“We shall have to give it up and go,” he said at last. “We must get back to tea. We’ll give the carp to Polly Hopley, she likes fish, and the eel too.”
“Look! a bite,” I whispered, for I distinctly saw a slight quivering of the top of the float.
“No,” he said despondently. “I did that, shaking the top of the rod. I’m not so lucky as you. Yes, it is. Hooray!”
For the faint quiver was repeated, then there were one or two little bobs, then others, and at last the float began to dance slowly away toward the shore.