"Fisher-cat, isn't it?" said Rod.
It did look like one, certainly. It was black, and about the same size.
"Suppose he'd show fight if we should go round there?" continued Rod, looking leisurely for the hatchet.
Poor success fishing had made him a little pugnacious, I suppose; and a scrimmage with a fisher-cat, or carcajoe, when you can get one to face about, isn't bad fun for those who enjoy such sport, and are willing to run the risk of getting scratched and bitten.
In explanation, I should say that the "fisher-cat" is a member of the weasel family. Naturalists call it the Mustela Canadensis, or Canada weasel; a pretty big weasel, to be sure. Hunters and trappers hate it most heartily, for it will follow them all day on their rounds, taking the bait out of their traps as fast as they can set them.
Well, if we could not catch any pickerel, perhaps a little fracas with Mr. Snarly-face, over there, would be the next best thing; and I was just drawing up my line, when there came a heavy tug at the bait, nearly jerking the line from my hands. There was not only one tug, but a series of tugs and rushes to and fro, making the water fairly boil in the hole.
I had hooked a big one, and he was testing the line to the utmost, and rasping it across the sharp edges of the ice. Holding it steadily, however, the struggle gradually ceased, and looking down into the water, we saw a noble fellow, slowly waving his fins on the sand, at the bottom of the pond.
"Isn't he a thumper!" exclaimed Rod. "Five or six pounds, certain! Fish enough for one day."
He had become pretty docile, and I had drawn him up within six or seven feet of the surface, when, with a sudden plunge, a long, dark animal darted through the water, and seizing the fish, passed out of sight under the ice, like a black streak. I pulled sharply at the line, once, twice--then it snapped.
Here was a surprise.