“I couldn’t help it, Dave. I did try so hard!” pleaded the lad.
“And you wouldn’t let me try—obstinate!” grumbled Tom.
“Deal better you’d have done it, wouldn’t you!” cried Dick in an exasperated tone.
“Done it better than that!” cried Tom hotly.
“Nay, yow wouldn’t, lad,” said Dave coolly. “It’s a girt big un, and he’s too sharp for us. Well, it’s getting on and we may as well go home. He’s gone! Blether wean’t come to the top no more!”
“But will he take a bait again, Dave?” said Dick; “I mean, if we come another time.”
“Will yow want any dinner to-morrow, lad?” said Dave, laughing. “Ay, he’ll tek a bait again, sure enough, and we’ll hev him some day! Theer, it’s getting late; look at the starnels sattling down on the reeds!”
He pointed to the great clouds of birds curving round in the distance as he stooped and picked up the pole, ready to send the punt homewards, for the evening was closing in, and it would be dark before they reached the shore.
“What’s that?” cried Tom suddenly, as he swept the surface of the water, and he pointed to a faint white speck about twenty yards away.
“Hey? Why, it is!” cried Dave. “Tek the hook again, Mester Dick, lad; there’s a little wind left yet in th’ blether, and it’s coom oop!”