Josh had in the meantime managed to get his line ready just as Buster finished his work; George told him it looked suspiciously as though he had been “soldiering,” and meant to let his rival do all the work; but gallant Buster, hearing all this talk, immediately came to the rescue.
“And why shouldn’t Josh take it easy, after going to all the trouble to prepare that fine supper?” he demanded. “You’ve got a bad habit, George, of looking a gift horse in the mouth, and the sooner you break yourself of it the better. Now, come along Josh, and let’s find a good place for throwing our lines out into the river.”
“We’re not going to be partial or play favorites,” warned Jack, laughingly; “may the best man win; but please don’t try to give us any more planked shad, Buster, you hear!”
[CHAPTER VII]
WHEN THE STORM CAME
As Buster had taken a survey of the situation before darkness came along, he knew of a promising point close at hand. Here they could toss their lines out, and let the current drag them partly down-stream.
It was not the kind of fishing that the boys preferred, because they were accustomed to using jointed rods, and even casting artificial flies with which to lure the frisky trout or the hard-pulling black bass to their destruction. But as Buster wisely declared, “When you’re fish hungry you’ve just got to shut your eyes and get ’em any old way; results are what count then, not methods.”
Presently Buster had a savage bite, and drew in a squirming victim. He eyed this in the light of the rising moon and then remarked:
“I don’t know the species that fellow belongs to, but he looks good to me, and all I hope is there are a lot of his uncles and his cousins and his aunts hanging around, anxious for grub bait. Hello! Got one, have you, Josh? Bully for you! Whew! He’s a scrapper in the bargain, I tell you. I hope he doesn’t break loose, and give us the grand laugh!”