“Not yet,” hopefully.
“Lower your line a little. I’ll come in a minute.” Line is lowered. Arms begin to ache. Rod suddenly bobs down. Snatch it up. Only an old stick. Splash it off contemptuously.
“Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from afar.
“No,” faintly responds Marius, amid the ruins of Carthage.
“Perhaps he will by and by,” suggests Halicarnassus encouragingly. Five minutes more. Arms breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky. Brain dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down stream. Tempted to give it up, but look at the empty basket, think of the expectant party, and the eight cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience.
“Bite?” comes the distant voice of Halicarnassus, disappearing by a bend in the river.
“No!” I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest the other, and ending by standing on neither; for the pebble quivers, convulses, and finally rolls over and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden conversion of the fishing-rod into a balancing-pole save me from an ignominious bath. Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather all my remaining strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high, hurl it out in the deepest and most unobstructed part of the stream, * * * lie down upon the rock, pull my hat over my face, and dream, to the furling of the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of the wind in the trees, of another river, far, far, away.
“Hullo! how many?”
I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after it, at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.