“I thought you were fishing,” remarked Glenn. “So I am,” replied Joe; “and I’ve had the greatest luck you ever heard of.” “Well, tell me your success.” “I had a bite,” continued he, “in less than three minutes after I threw in my hook. It was a wapper! When he took hold I let him play about awhile with a slack line, to be certain and get it well fixed in his mouth. But when I went to draw up, the monster made a splash or two, and then whizzed out into the middle of the river!” “Where was the hook?” asked Glenn. “In his mouth, to be sure,” replied Joe. “And the line?” “Fast to the rod.” “And the rod?” “Fast to the line!” said Joe, “and following the fish at the rate of ten knots, while I stood on the bank staring in utter astonishment.” “Then, where was your great success?” demanded Glenn. “It was a noble _bite_,” said Joe. “But you were the _bitten_ one,” remarked Glenn, scanning Joe’s visage, which began to assume a disconsolate cast. “If I’d only been thinking about such a wapper, and had been on my guard,” said Joe, “splash me if he should ever have got my rod away in that manner—I’d have taken a ducking first!” “Have you no more lines?” asked Glenn. “No,” replied Joe, “none but your’s.” “You are welcome to it—but be quick, and I will look on while you have your revenge.” Joe sprang nimbly up the hill, and in a few minutes returned with fresh tackle and another frog that he found on his way. They then repaired to the margin of the river; but before Joe ventured to cast out his line again he made the end of the rod fast to his wrist by means of a strong cord he had provided for that purpose. But now his precaution seemed to have been unnecessary, for many minutes elapsed without any symptoms of success.