“No,” was the reply, “I never do. My father once caught one.”
“Indeed!” said Sir Mark, yawning, for it was a peculiarity of Sir Thomas Beckley that he made everyone with whom he came into contact yawn.
“Yes,” continued Sir Thomas. “It was during a very hot summer, and the moat was nearly dry. I remember it well.”
“You seem to have an excellent recollection, Sir Thomas.”
“I have, Sir Mark, I have,” said the baronet pompously. “The great carp had somehow been left in a tiny pool whence he could not escape, so my father caught him.”
“But not with a hook, Sir Thomas—he did not angle.”
“Marry, sir, but he did. He’d have gone in after it but for the mud, which would have sullied his trunk hose and velvet breeches of murrey colour, so he had a kitchen meat hook tied to a long pole, and caught the big fish fairly.”
“Indeed, Sir Thomas? It must have been an exciting scene.”
“My father was a great man, Sir Mark.”
“Great and rich, Sir Thomas?”