“Why that girt mortial of a vish as hath his hover in Crocker’s Hole. Zum on ’em saith as a’ must be a zammon.”
Off went Pike with his handkerchief to his mouth, and after him ran Alec Bolt, one of his fellow-pupils, who had come to the shop to enjoy the extraction.
“Oh, my!” was all that Pike could utter, when by craftily posting himself he had obtained a good view of this grand fish.
“I’ll lay you a crown you don’t catch him!” cried Bolt, an impatient youth, who scorned angling.
“How long will you give me?” asked the wary Pike, who never made rash wagers.
“Oh! till the holidays if you like; or, if that won’t do, till Michaelmas.”
Now the midsummer holidays were six weeks off—boys used not to talk of “vacations” then, still less of “recesses.”
“I think I’ll bet you,” said Pike, in his slow way, bending forward carefully, with his keen eyes on this monster; “but it would not be fair to take till Michaelmas. I’ll bet you a crown that I catch him before the holidays—at least, unless some other fellow does.”