"So we did," said Herring.
He sat down, and they almost "went" again.
"Now," said Phyllis, "play him."
"Play him?" said Herring. "Watch me." And he began to pull strongly upon the fish.
The fish was young and weak. Herring's tackle was new and strong. The fish dangled in mid-air over the middle of the boat.
"Sorry," said Herring, "I can't reach him. Take him off, please."
It has been said that Phyllis was a good sport. If there was one thing she hated and feared more than another, it was a live fish. She reached forward; her gloved hand almost closed upon it; it gave a convulsive flop; Phyllis squeaked like a mouse, threw her weight to one side, and the boat quietly upset.
The sportsmen came to the surface streaming.
"I can touch bottom," said Herring politely; "can you?"