Tumbling out of the “Red Scout,” laden with fishing baskets and tackle and rods, they raced down to the river bank, selected each a shady, grassy, comfortable spot, and, line and reel and hook adjusted, were obliged at last to curb their wild spirits, still their noisy chatter, and settle down to fisherman’s quiet, although irrepressible Tom, unable to subside at once, sang softly:
“Hush, hush, not a breath, not a breath,
I’ve a nibble, still as death, still as death.”
The others could not resist joining in the chorus of the old song, and regardless of consequences sang lustily:
“Oh, the joys of angling!
Oh, the joys of angling!
Oh, the joys, oh, the joys,
The joys, the joys of angling.”
Then a Sabbath stillness descended on the party, until Ben shouted, “first bite,” and giving his line a sudden jerk and swing, landed a beautiful speckled trout upon the grass a few feet away.
For a few moments excitement reigned, and cries of “Hurrah for Ben,” “good for us,” “isn’t he a beauty?” “let’s keep it up,” were heard, until Bert’s “We certainly won’t keep it up unless we keep quiet,” sent them back to their places and again quiet reigned.
Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by, and there were no more nibbles. The boys were beginning to get restless, when Bert landed the second fish, and, a couple of minutes after re-baiting his hook, added a third beauty to their collection.
Tom, seeing the success of his comrades, began to feel as though he were being left on the outside of things, but Bert encouraged him by reminding him, “First the worst, second the same, last the best of all the game,” and sure enough, after nearly half an hour of most trying waiting, he suddenly felt his line twitch, and had the joy of landing the largest and finest fish yet caught.
When the excitement had a little subsided, Ben said, “I think we ought to celebrate that dandy catch, and the very finest way would be to have a feast.”