Having disposed our big lines, we bait the smaller ones with “pippies,” and not two minutes at the outside elapse after the sinkers have touched bottom when we know we are to have a good time, for each of us has hooked a fish, and three whiting are kicking on the sand before five minutes have expired.  Then for another hour we throw out and haul in again as quickly as possible, landing whiting from 6 oz. to nearly 2 lbs. in weight.  One of the “Twins” has three hooks on his line, and occasionally lands three fish together, and now and again we get small bream and an occasional “tailer” of 2 lbs. or 3 lbs.  As the sun mounts higher the breeze dies away, the heat becomes very great, and we have frequent recourse to our water jar—­in one case mixing it with whisky.  Then the whiting cease to bite as suddenly as they have begun, and move off into deeper water.  Just as we are debating as to whether we shall take the boat out into mid-stream, Twin Dick gives a yell as his stick is suddenly whipped out of the sand, and the loose line lying beside it rushes away into the water.  But Dick is an old hand, and lets his fish have his first bolt, and then turns him.  “By Jingo! sir, he’s a big fellow,” he cries, as he hauls in, the line now as taut as a telegraph wire, and then the other twin comes to his aid, and in a few minutes the outline of the fish is seen, coming in straight ahead as quick as they can pull him.  When he is within ten feet of the beach the boys run up the bank and land him safely, as he turns his body into a circle in his attempts to shake out the hook.  Being called upon to estimate his weight, I give it as 11 lbs., much to the twins’ sorrow—­they think it 15 lbs.

Half an hour passes, and we catch but half a dozen silvery bream and some small baby whiting, for now the sun is beating down upon our heads, and our naked feet begin to burn and sting, so we adjourn to the old house and rest awhile, leaving our big lines securely tied.  But, though the breeze for which we wait comes along by two o’clock, the fish do not, and so, after disinterring our takes from the wet sand wherein we had buried them as caught to prevent them being spoilt by the sun, we get aboard again and pull across to the opposite bank of the river.  Here, in much deeper water, about fifteen feet right under the clayey bank, we can see hundreds of fine bream, and now and then some small jew-fish.  Taking off our sinkers, we have as good and more exciting sport among the bream than we had with the whiting, catching between four and five dozen by six o’clock.  Then, after boiling the billy and eating some fearfully tough corned meat, we get into the boat again, hoist our sail, and land at the little township just after dark.