Now skill is a very necessary thing and will tell in the long run, but luck is sometimes, doubtless for a wise purpose, permitted to triumph over it. In vain did the unfortunate deacon renew his baits, change the depth of his sinker, fish on the bottom or near the top; the result was the same. His irritation increased and broke forth into ejaculations of impatience, and a sudden desire to move to some other spot.
“There seem to be no fish here, we had better try a new place,” he said pettishly.
“I am doing very well, and doubt whether we could better ourselves,” replied his associate with that hilarity that success engenders, landing two bright little bass at once.
“You do not call that good fishing, they are mere sprats. I have taken many a bass of twenty-four pounds, and two of over fifty.”
“But you know the run is always small in this month.”
“Of course I know that; but I never saw such luck, you must have taken twenty, such as they are.”
“More than twenty, thirty at least; but perhaps we had better change places, I have taken more than I want and you had better try your hand.”
After some demur and a coquettish but half sulky refusal to deprive him of his “good luck,” Mr. Goodlow complied with his friend’s suggestion, but wonderful to say the luck changed at the same time; the fish all fled to the stern of the boat and were landed there faster than they had been previously over the bow. In fact, one line seemed to be bewitched as though the fish were in a piscatorial conspiracy. Even when the unfortunate fisherman extended his line and allowed his float to swing round beyond the stern and even alongside of his companion’s, that of the latter would be dragged under at every moment, while his would remain undisturbed.
“Well, I have seen luck before,” he began, fiercely, “but never such luck as this; how deep are you fishing?”
This question, as betraying the possibility of inferior judgment, fairly stuck in his throat.