“Glad of it. How will you cook it—roast or boil?”
“Don’t chaff. Mind your own line.”
Drew Lennox smiled, glanced down at his line, which the stream had now drawn out tight, and, satisfied that the stone to which it was tied would give him fair warning if he were fortunate enough to get a bite, he stepped back, picked up his rifle, and taking out his handkerchief, began to give it a rub here and a rub there, to add polish to the well-cleaned barrel, trigger-guard, and lock.
He took some time over this, but at last all was to his satisfaction; and laying down the piece on the rock by his side, he once more drew up his line, glancing up-stream, to see that his companion was similarly occupied, both finding the bait gone.
“I say, isn’t it aggravating?” said Dickenson. “I know what they are—sort of mullet-like fish with small mouths. Put on a smaller bait.”
“All right; good plan,” said Lennox.
“Wish to goodness I’d a few well-scoured English worms. I’d soon let the fish know!”
“Ah, I suppose they would be useful,” said Lennox, moulding up a piece of paste and trying to make it as hard as he could. “I say, Bob.”
“Hullo!”
“I’ve read that you can dig up great fat worms here in South Africa, eighteen inches long.”