“Not it, youngster. You’ll soon get used to ’em. I don’t mind; they don’t hurt me. Wait a bit, and, pretty little creeturs, you’ll like it.”
“What! Like being bitten?”
“To be sure, sir. ’Livens you up a bit in this hot sleepy country; does your skin good; stimmylates, like, same as a rub with a good rough towel at home.”
Rob gave vent to a surly grunt and jerked his line.
“I don’t believe there are any fish here,” he said.
“No fish! Ah! that’s what we boys used to say o’ half-holidays when we took our tackle to Clapham Common to fish the ponds there. We always used to say there was no fish beside the tiddlers, and them you could pull out as fast as you liked with a bit o’ worm without a hook, but there was fish there then—big perch and whacking carp, and now and then one of us used to get hold of a good one, and then we used to sing quite another song.—I say, sir!”
“Well?”
“This here’s rather different to Clapham Common, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Rob, “but it isn’t what I expected.”
“What did you ’spect, then? Ain’t the river big enough for you?”