“Now for a big fish!” said the lad.
But after waiting some time and getting no bites, Bert was inclined to think that he had chosen a wrong spot or else that his bait or the day was wrong. His first guess was borne out a little later when a voice hailed him, saying:
“You’ll never get any fish there!”
Bert Bobbsey turned and saw a country lad of about his own age standing on the edge of the weed-grown field. The boy was barefooted, his clothes were ragged, and he had a torn straw hat on his head. Over his shoulder was a crooked stick cut from a tree, and fastened to it was a line with many knots in it, as if it had been broken and tied a number of times.
“Why won’t I get any fish here?” asked Bert.
“’Cause there aren’t any there—it’s too shallow. If you want to get big ones you’ll have to go up above to the eddy, where the water’s deep.”
“Well, I must say I haven’t had much luck here,” admitted Bert. “I’ve tried worms and grasshoppers, and the only bites are little nibbles.”
“Those are just baby fish. They suck off the bait without getting caught on the hook,” said the country lad. “Come on with me if you want to, and I’ll show you a good place.”
“Thanks,” answered Bert. “Do you live around here?”
“Yes, just over that hill. My name’s Sam Porter. What’s yours?”