Tom could not resist the temptation, and threw over the rails, which crossed the stream from hedge to hedge to mark the boundaries of the parish, until he got well over the place where the fish was rising.
“There, that was at your fly,” said East, hobbling up in great excitement.
“All right, I shall have him directly. There he is. Hullo! Harry, I say! Splash with your stick. Drive the brute back. Bad luck to him. Look at that!”
The fish, when hooked, had come straight up stream towards his captor, and notwithstanding East's attempts to frighten him back, he rushed in under the before-mentioned walls, which were adorned with jagged nails, to make crossing on them unpleasant for the Englebourn boys. Against one of these Tom's line severed, and the waters closed over two beauteous flies, and some six feet of lovely taper gut.
East laughed loud and merrily; and Tom, crestfallen as he was, was delighted to hear the old ring coming back into his friend's voice.
“Harry, old fellow, you're picking up already in this glorious air.”
“Of course I am. Two or three more weddings and fishings will set me up altogether. How could you be so green as to throw over those rails? It's a proper lesson to you, Tom, for poaching.”
“Well, that's cool. Didn't I throw down stream to please you?”
“You ought to have resisted temptation. But, I say, what are you at?”
“Putting on another cast, of course.”