Boldly did Oliver step out upon the ledge; cautiously did he advance each foot, until he was more than leg-deep, and wildly, like an insane semaphore, did he wave his arms, as well as the heavy rod, in his frantic efforts not to lose his balance! At last he planted his feet, with a cheer of triumph, on the rock.
“Hush, Olly, you’ll frighten the fish,” cried Paul, with feigned anxiety.
“You’ll tumble in again, if you don’t mind,” said his cautious father.
But Olly heard not. The whole of his little soul was centred on the oily pool into which he had just cast the bunch of worms. Another moment, and the stout rod was almost wrenched from his grasp.
“Have a care! Hold on! Stand fast!” saluted him in various keys, from the bank.
“A cod! or a whale!” was the response from the rock.
“More likely a salmon,” remarked Hendrick, in an undertone, while a sober smile lit up his features.
At the moment a magnificent salmon, not less than twenty pounds weight, leapt like a bar of silver from the flood, and fell back, with a mighty splash.
The leap caused a momentary and sudden removal of the strain on the rod. Oliver staggered, slipped, and fell with a yell that told of anxiety more than alarm; but he got up smartly, still holding on by both hands.
In fishing with the tapering rods and rattling reels of modern days, fishers never become fully aware of the strength of salmon, unless, indeed, a hitch in their line occurs, and everything snaps! It was otherwise about the beginning of the sixteenth century. It is otherwise still with primitive fishers everywhere. Oliver’s line could not run; his rod was rigid, save at the point. The result was that it was all he could do to stand and hold on to his captive. The rod, bent down into the water, sprang up to the perpendicular, flew hither and thither, jerked and quivered, causing the poor boy to jerk and quiver in irresistible sympathy. At last a mighty rush of the fish drew the fisher headlong into the flood.