There was a shout as Harry, with a scientific flourish of his rod, hauled a small blackfish from its watery bed.
“Not bad for a beginning!” he said, grinning. “But not a patch on yours, Norah!”
“Oh, I had luck,” Norah said. “He really is a beauty, isn’t he? I think he must be the grandfather of all the perches.”
“If that’s so,” said Jim, beginning to pull in, with an expression of “do or die” earnestness, “I reckon I’ve got the grandmother on now!”
A storm of advice hurtled about Jim as he tugged at his line.
“Hurry up, Jim!”
“Go slow!”
“There—he’s getting off again!”
“So are you!” said the ungrateful recipient of the counsel, puffing hard.
“Only a boot, Jim—don’t worry!”