“As to the first, young gentlemen,” he answered, “I can’t say as how I ever thought much about it; and as to the second, a man before he goes into battle knows that it may be his lot, and so he makes up his mind to it. When a man makes up his mind to a thing it is much easier to bear it, let me tell you. Besides, very few men, when they once begin to fight, think about anything else but the fighting.”
The conversation to which Toby’s history led lasted the party till they reached the place at which they intended to pic-nic. It had been selected not so much because of its peculiar beauty, as on account of the good fishing which Power expected to get there. He talked of salmon-peel, and basse, and flounders, and plaice, all of which come up salt-water rivers, and often venture into brackish waters. Power at once set off to the spot where he intended to fish: it was on a bank just below a mill-dam. The salt-water flowed in with the flood-tide, and when the ebb made a strong current run out, which always kept open a deep channel. Some shade-giving trees grew about, the turf was soft and green, and, at a little distance, the cliffs turned inland, and formed a ravine, in which stood the mill and the mill pond. Marshall and Easton went off to botanise, and to search in the cliffs for geological specimens and other subjects of natural history; while Digby and two other boys accompanied Power with their rods. Ten minutes passed, and all except Power began to make signs to each other expressive of increasing hunger; but no sign was there of a fish.
“Hurra!” he at last exclaimed; “I have a bite; I knew I should.” His float began to bob, and away it went down the stream. He gave his rod a jerk. “I have him fast enough,” he exclaimed. High he lifted his rod, and up came a fish—but such a fish—a little, ugly, big-headed, flat-snouted monster.
“A miller’s thumb!—a miller’s thumb!” shouted the party, laughing heartily. “What a fine dinner he will make for us,” cried one. “I hope you’ll let us have something else, Power,” said Digby.
“Not unless you will all hold your tongues, and let me try again, for I don’t think any of you will catch anything,” said Power.
Just then Toby arrived, with a stick and line. He held up the poor bull-head with a comical look, and pretended to let it drop down his throat—a proceeding which he would have found very unpleasant as besides its large head its back was armed with a row of sharp spines. “We call this a sea-scorpion, or sea-toad, and some call it a father-lasher, because he is supposed to be so wicked that he would beat even his own father,” said Toby, putting back the fish with a pretence of the greatest care into the basket. “Now, young gentlemen, I’ll see what I can do for the pot; it’s on, and boiling, and only wants something put into it. I’ll make you some pebble-soup if we don’t catch any fish; but the fish will be best, I think.” Toby, on this, went a little lower down the creek, and taking his seat on the bank, let his line drop into the water, throwing in, every now and then, some ground bait. Before long, he pulled out a shining silvery little fish, of most graceful form; another and another followed in rapid succession.
Digby, who had caught nothing, went up to him. “Why, Toby, what are those pretty little fish? I should like to have some of them,” he observed. “How do you catch them?”
“I’ll show you if you’ll sit down and try,” answered Toby. “You’ve caught no fish because you’ve been wandering about from place to place, and not taking advantage of the experience you have got with your first trials. If one depth won’t do, raise or lower your float; if one bait don’t do, try another; and the same with your hook, if you find that you get bites and don’t catch anything. Perseverance is the thing. I generally can tell how a lad is likely to get on in life by the way I see him fish. You’ll excuse my freedom, Master Digby; I like to say what I think will be likely to be useful to you.”
Digby thanked Toby, though he did not quite see the drift of his reasoning. He, however, put on a very small hook, and watched how he caught the smelts; and, in a short time, he had pulled up nearly a dozen. He might have captured more, but turning his head up the stream he saw that Power was hauling some big fish out of the water, and he could not resist the temptation of running off to see what it was.
“Help! help! Here, the landing-net, the landing-net,” shouted Power. “I’ve a conger, a conger; there’s no doubt about it.”