Jim paused.
“Say you put your hook in the water, Wally, old chap,” he suggested.
Wally looked and blushed. In the excitement of the moment he had unconsciously pulled up his line until the bait dangled helplessly in the air, a foot above the water. The party on the log laughed at the expense of Wally, and Jim proceeded.
“Father and four other men came across the creek and sang out to us—
“‘We’re going back a bit to burn a break!’ they said. ‘Come along.’
“We all went back about a hundred yards from the creek and lit the grass, spreading out in a long line across the paddock. Then every one kept his own little fire from going in the wrong direction, and kept it burning back towards the creek, of course preventing any logs or trees from getting alight. It was pretty tough work, the smoke was so bad, but at last it was done, and a big, burnt streak put across the paddock. Except for flying bits of lighted stuff there wasn’t much risk of the fire getting away from us when once we had got that break to help us. You see, a grass fire isn’t like a real bush fire. It’s a far more manageable beast. It’s when you get fire in thick scrub that you can just make up your mind to stand aside and let her rip!”
Jim pulled up his book and examined his bait carefully.
“Fish seem off us,” he said.
“That all the yarn?” Harry asked.
“No, there’s more, if you’re not sick of it.”