“Same as yourself, I suppose,” came the calm reply.
“Humph! Well, you’re not going to rout me out at five o’clock in the morning.”
“Don’t be a bear, Tom. We’ve got to help the fellows catch that fish and you know it, so the sooner we start the better. A couple of the fellows are down there now.”
“Oh, well, I suppose we’ve got to, then, worse luck. They probably will guy us unmercifully, too, about yesterday. It’s a wonder they didn’t, last night,” which was all the credit the boys got for trying to save the feelings of the reckless volunteers.
As the two comrades ran swiftly down to the water’s edge, they noticed that Shorty—Philip Strong had been nicknamed Shorty because of his very small figure—was tugging hard at his line.
“Got a bite, Shorty?” they shouted, when they came within hailing distance.
“Bet your life, and it’s pulling like a good fellow, too.”
“Better let me help; I’m stronger than you,” offered Bob, who was sitting a little distance down the bank and whose luck hadn’t been of the best up to that time.
Now, a very sore point with Shorty was his lack of strength, and whenever anybody referred to it, no matter with what good intentions, he always bristled up as if at a personal insult. This morning that very touchiness proved to be his undoing, for, as he got to his feet, intending to inform Bob that he could do very well without any of his help, the fish gave a sudden jerk to the line that made Shorty lose his balance and tumble head-first into the water.