“Gone!” said R. C., dejectedly.
But I was not so sure of that, although I was hopeless. R. C. wound in, finding the line came slowly, as if weighted. I watched closely. We thought that was on account of the seaweed. But suddenly the reel began to screech.
“I’ve got him yet!” yelled R. C., with joy.
I was overjoyed, too, but I contained myself, for I expected dire results from that run.
Zee! Zee! Zee! went the reel, and the rod nodded in time.
“We must get rid of that seaweed or lose him.... Pull up your anchor with one hand.... Careful now.”
He did so, and quickly I got mine up. What ticklish business!
“Keep a tight line!” I cautioned, as I backed the canoe hard with all my power. It was not easy to go backward and keep head on to the wind. The waves broke over the end of the canoe, splashing me in the face so I could taste and smell the salt. I made half a dozen shoves with the paddle. Then, nearing the piece of seaweed, I dropped my anchor.
In a flash I got that dangerous piece of seaweed off R. C.’s line.
“Good work!... Say, but that helps.... We’d never have gotten him,” said R. C., beaming. I saw him look then as he used to in our sunfish, bent-pin days.