"Hurrah for Port!" said aunt Judith. "It's the biggest one yet."
So it was; and a proud boy was Porter Hudson when Deacon Farnham declared that the great fish he had fought so hard with was a seven-pound pickerel.
"Now, aunt Judith, it's your turn next."
"Me, Corry? Me? What could I do with a cretur like that?"
"I'll help you if you get a big one. Here's your line: you must try."
She had to be coaxed a little more, but she consented, and Susie herself took the other line. The fish were biting hungrily; for in less than a minute aunt Judith gave a little scream and a jerk, and began to pull in her line; then another little scream and another jerk, and then,—
"Perch!" she exclaimed. "Ain't I glad it wasn't a pickerel!—Penelope, you can ketch the rest of my fish for me. I'll just look on."
Susie's face grew almost pale, as she stood there with her line in her hand, waiting for something to pull on it.
"Do they nibble first, Vosh?"
Hardly were the words out of her mouth, before her line was suddenly jerked away from her. Vosh had just time to catch hold of the piece of wood the rest of it was wound upon.