“I say, Mr Briscoe, why didn’t you hold him? You had him fast.”
“Why didn’t you hold him with the line?” said the American drily.
“Can’t you see? It broke.” And Lynton held out the end.
“And can’t you see? What sort of hook do you call this?”
As he spoke Briscoe held out the gaff, which was nearly straightened out.
“I guess,” he continued, “that you people ought to make this sort of tools of hard steel and not of soft iron.”
They examined the hook, and even though it was made of soft iron the strength exerted to straighten it out as had been done must have been enormous.
“Well, anyhow, our fish has gone,” said Lynton ruefully.
“And if we’re not going to have any better luck than this,” said Brace, laughing, “the cook will not have much use for his frying-pan. There, let’s run up to the falls, and perhaps we may do something with our guns.”
“Just so,” said Briscoe; “only mind how you shoot, for if anything should happen to fall into the water, the fish’ll have it before we know where we are. This seems to me,” he added drily, “rather a fishy place.”