“About three feet.”
“Mine is the same. No, it is mere luck, that is all.” Anger was making his language slightly ungrammatical.
Mr. Hartley replied, as he landed another brace: “Of course it is, and now let’s change seats again and see if we cannot outwit the fish.”
Being patronized by an inferior fisherman is almost unbearable, it implies triumph with nothing to justify it; and an assumption of superiority will be suspected if not intended. So Mr. Goodlow held out for a time, saying slightingly: “Oh, it was a mere question of luck, mere luck that must soon change;” but as it did not, and as his friend’s manner was soothing and even submissive, he at last consented, with the air of conferring a favor, to resume his old place in the stern.
At the first cast which Mr. Hartley made after returning to his seat at the bow, he hooked and landed the largest fish yet seen. This was too much, and if people swear inwardly it is greatly to be feared the unfortunate deacon will have to report hereafter one of the commandments broken on that occasion.
“Come,” he said, “we will go home; another time perhaps I can have a little luck. I used to think there was something like skill in fishing, but there does not appear to be in catching these miserable little fish.”
“Why, my last one must have weighed two pounds.”
“Two pounds! Not an ounce over one. I have had enough for this day, and the sun is remarkably hot.”
“Oh, I cannot go just yet; here comes another, nearly as large as the last.”
“I insist upon it,” Mr. Goodlow continued, having reeled up his line and taken apart his rod. “I will not stay longer, my horse must be fed, and it is late.”