The fisherman’s son now climbed the weir or “purse” of the enclosure. It was almost circular, a yard across, so arranged that a man could stand on top to draw out the fish with a little net or with a line.
All watched him, some thinking they saw already the quiver of the little fishes and the shimmer of their silver scales.
The net was drawn up; nothing in it; the line, no fish adorned it. The water fell back in a shower of drops, and laughed a silvery laugh. A cry of disappointment escaped from every mouth.
“You don’t understand your business,” said Albino, climbing up by the young man; and he took the net. “Look now! Ready, Andeng!”
But Albino was no better fisherman. Everybody laughed.
“Don’t make a noise, you’ll drive away the fish. The net must be broken.” But every mesh was intact.
“Let me try,” said Léon, the fiancée of Iday. “Are you sure no one has been here for five days?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Then either the lake is enchanted or I draw out something.”
He cast the line, looked annoyed, dragged the hook along in the water and murmured: