The very first pleasant day, he got leave from his father to go to the pond and try his luck.
"Be sure to bring home a good mess of fish, Charley," said his father.
"Oh, yes! papa," said Charley, and with his fishing-pole on his shoulder out he went.
What fun it was! First he dug some worms for bait; then he baited his hook nicely; then he took his stand on a little platform, made on purpose for the use of fishermen, and threw out his hook.
There he stood, in the shade of the old willow-tree, and waited for the fish to bite. As he looked down into the calm, clear water, he saw a boy, just about his own size, looking up at him. He had no other company.
He kept close watch of the pretty painted cork, expecting every moment to see it go under water. But for a long, long time it floated almost without motion.
Charley's patience began to give out. "I don't believe there are any fish here," thought he. Just then the cork dipped a little on one side. Then it stopped. Then it dipped again.
"Hurrah!" said Charley, and he pulled up the line with a jerk. Was there a fish on it? Not a bit of one. But the bait was all gone.
"Never mind!" said Charley, "I'll catch him next time." He baited the hook, and threw it out again. The sport was getting exciting.