“Oh! do get it this time, Dick!” panted Tom as he knelt in the boat.
“One quick dash, Mester Dick, and you hev it!”
Dick did not answer, but lay prone upon his chest well out over the stern of the boat, holding on with one hand, the hook stretched out over the water, ready, his heart beating and his eyes glittering with excitement.
As the punt glided on Dick’s face was reflected in the dark amber-tinted water—for there was not a ripple made—but he saw nothing of the glassy surface; his eyes were riveted upon the gleaming white bladder, into which the string had cut so deeply.
Another moment or two and he would be within striking distance, but a glance at his hook showed that, perhaps from looseness in its socket, the point was turned too much away.
He had barely time to turn it, as the moment arrived to strike, and strike he did, just as the bladder was plunging down.
A yell came from behind him from Dave!
A groan from Tom!
Dick rose up in the boat with a feeling of misery and disappointment, such as he had never before experienced, for he was perfectly conscious of what he had done. The bladder had been snatched under so quickly, that when he struck, instead of the hook going beneath and catching the string, the point had entered the bladder. He had even felt the check, and knew that he had torn a hole in the side.
“Hey, but yow’ve done it now, Mester Dick!” said Dave, laying the pole across the boat and sitting down.