“So it seems,” said the boy jeeringly. “Don’t even know how to strike a fish. There, you’ve got another bite. Look at him; he’s running away with it.”
It was no credit to Dexter that he got hold of that fish, for the unfortunate roach had hooked itself.
As the float glided away beneath the surface, Dexter gave a tremendous snatch with the rod, and jerked the fish out of the water among the branches of an overhanging tree, where the line caught, and the captive hung suspended about a foot below a cluster of twigs, flapping about and trying to get itself free.
Dexter’s fellow-fisherman burst into a roar of laughter, laid down his rod, and stamped about on the opposite bank slapping his knees, while the unlucky fisherman stood with his rod in his hand, jigging the line.
“You’ll break it if you don’t mind,” cried the shabby boy.
“But I want to get it out.”
“You shouldn’t have struck so hard. Climb up the tree, get out on that branch, and reach down.”
Dexter looked at the tree, which hung over the water to such an extent that it seemed as if his weight would tear it from its hold in the bank, while the water looked terribly deep and black beneath.
“I say,” cried the shabby boy jeeringly; “who taught you how to fish!”
“Why, old Dimsted did, and he knew.”