“I guess this ought to be about right,” Bert agreed.
In a few minutes the reels were fixed, the hooks were baited, and the lines were lowered carefully into the clear depths of the stream.
“This is what you might call comfort,” said Tom, as he leaned lazily against a convenient tree.
“Bet your life,” Bert agreed.
“Now, if Pete will only consent to come along and get the hook, like any other respectable, right-minded fish, my contentment would be absolute.”
“Huh,” Tom grunted sarcastically. “He’d be likely to do that, wouldn’t he, especially if you keep up this gabfest?”
“I guess a little polite conversation won’t scare that wary old reprobate. I imagine he’s heard so much conversation that couldn’t be called exactly polite, especially when he calmly detaches the bait from the hook without stopping to leave his card, that he wouldn’t mind our talk at all.”
“Shut up,” said Tom, in a low voice, “I’ve got a bite, and the line’s pulling hard.”
Then, amid a breathless silence, Tom gave a quick, experienced pull to the line, and landed—not the renowned old Pete, but a small-sized sunfish, that wriggled and twisted desperately in its efforts to get away.
At this minute Bert happened to glance at Tom’s face, and the look he found there was so eloquent of absolute dismay and chagrin, that he burst into a shout of uncontrollable laughter, in which Dick joined him.