“Yes, I should—fishing,” cried Dexter. “But my line’s fast.”
“Why don’t you climb up and get it then? Ain’t afraid, are you!”
“What, to climb that tree?” cried Dexter. “Not I;” and laying the rod down with the butt resting on the bank, he began to climb at once.
“Mind yer don’t tumble in,” cried Bob Dimsted; “some o’ them boughs gets very rotten—like touchwood.”
“All right,” said Dexter; and he climbed steadily on in happy ignorance of the fact that the greeny lichen and growth was not good for dark cloth trousers and vests. But the bole of the tree was short, for it had been pollarded, and in a minute or two he was in a nest of branches, several of which protruded over the water, the one in particular which had entangled the fishing-line being not even horizontal, but dipping toward the surface.
“That’s the way,” shouted Bob Dimsted. “Look sharp, they’re biting like fun.”
“Think it’ll bear?” said Dexter.
“Bear? Yes; half a dozen on yer. Sit on it striddling, and work yourself along till you can reach the line. Got a knife?”
“Yes.”
“Then go right out, and when you git far enough cut off the little bough, and let it all drop into the water.”