But Bobby’s fish was what himself used to be—troublesome to deal with. It would not “stop that.”
It kept darting from side to side and leaping out of the water until, in one of its bursts, it got entangled with Tim’s fish, and the boys were obliged to haul them both ashore together.
“Splendid!” exclaimed Bobby, as they unhooked two fine trout and laid them on a place of safety; “At ’em again!”
At them they went, and soon had two more fish, but the disturbance created by these had the effect of frightening the others. At all events, at their third effort their patience was severely tried, for nothing came to their hooks to reward the intense gaze and the nervous readiness to act which marked each boy during the next half-hour or so.
At the end of that time there came a change in their favour, for little Martha Mild appeared on the scene. She had been sent, she said, to work with them.
“To play with us, you mean,” suggested Tim.
“No, father said work,” the child returned simply.
“It’s jolly work, then! But I say, old ’ooman, d’you call Mr Merryboy father?” asked Bob in surprise.
“Yes, I’ve called him father ever since I came.”
“An’ who’s your real father?”