Part 32 (1/2)

”Yah! you didn't know grandfather,” cried the boy mockingly; ”and you don't know how to fish. Grandfather wouldn't have taught you to chuck a fish up in the tree. You should strike gently, like that.”

He gave the top of his rod a slight, quick twitch, and hooked a good-sized roach. Dexter grinning to see him play it till it was feeble enough to be drawn to the side and lifted out.

”That's the way grandfather taught me how to fish,” continued the boy, as he took the hook from the captive's mouth, ”I say, what's your name!”

”Dexter Grayson,” was the answer, for the boy felt keenly already that the names Obed Coleby were ones of which he could not be proud.

”Ever been in the workus!”

”Yes.”

”Ever see grandfather there!”

”Yes, I've seen him,” said Dexter, who felt no inclination to enlighten the boy further.

”Ah, he could fish,” said the boy, baiting and throwing in again. ”My name's Dimsted--Bob Dimsted. So's father's. He can fish as well as grandfather. So can I,” he added modestly; ”there ain't a good place nowheres in the river as we don't know. I could take you where you could ketch fish every swim.”

”Could you?” said Dexter, who seemed awed in the presence of so much knowledge.

”Course I could, any day.”

”And will you?” said Dexter eagerly.

”Ah dunno,” said the boy, striking and missing another fish. ”You wouldn't care to go along o' me?”

”Yes, I should--fis.h.i.+ng,” cried Dexter. ”But my line's fast.”

”Why don't you climb up and get it then? Ain't afraid, are you!”

”What, to climb that tree?” cried Dexter. ”Not I;” and laying the rod down with the b.u.t.t resting on the bank, he began to climb at once.

”Mind yer don't tumble in,” cried Bob Dimsted; ”some o' them boughs gets very rotten--like touchwood.”

”All right,” said Dexter; and he climbed steadily on in happy ignorance of the fact that the greeny lichen and growth was not good for dark cloth trousers and vests. But the bole of the tree was short, for it had been pollarded, and in a minute or two he was in a nest of branches, several of which protruded over the water, the one in particular which had entangled the fis.h.i.+ng-line being not even horizontal, but dipping toward the surface.

”That's the way,” shouted Bob Dimsted. ”Look sharp, they're biting like fun.”

”Think it'll bear?” said Dexter.

”Bear? Yes; half a dozen on yer. Sit on it striddling, and work yourself along till you can reach the line. Got a knife?”

”Yes.”

”Then go right out, and when you git far enough cut off the little bough, and let it all drop into the water.”

”Why, then, I should lose the fish.”

”Not you. Ain't he hooked? You do as I say, and then git back, and you can pull all out together.”