Not far indeed, but there were a hundred yards of fine line out before he could begin to reel it in. Then he cried,
"There he goes, down under the bank. Means to sulk. I'll worry him out of that."
"Why don't you pull him right in?" asked Jeff, excitedly.
"Because he wouldn't come if I did."
It was a good while before there seemed to be any prospect of his coming, and the boys were almost tired of the fun of sitting still to see their stout friend let out his line and reel it in again. But at last the pickerel himself began to get a little tired of pulling and being pulled, and was reeled in closer and closer to the boat, while the trout rod bent nearly double.
"He'll break that line!"
"No, sonny; that's what the landing-net is for."
They saw it darted under the gleaming side of the great fish—a lift, a splash, and the prize was floundering on the bottom of the boat.
"Hurrah, boys! We've got him."
"You've beat us, mister. I'm just going to go home and catch a lot of flies," muttered Charley.