As Dick resumed his seat he felt a sharp pull at his own line, and drawing it in smartly he drew with it a fish as large as Pennington’s, a fact that he announced with pride.

“I think, Frank,” he called, “that this is not good old Vermont’s day.  Either we’re more skillful or the fish like us better than they do Warner.  Which do you think it is?”

“It’s both, Dick.”

“On second thought, I don’t agree with you, Frank.  The fish in this river are entirely new to us.  They’ve never seen us before, and they know nothing about us by hearsay and reputation.  It’s a case of skill, pure skill, Frank.  We’ve got Mr. Vermont down, and we’re going to hold him down.”

Warner said nothing, but Dick rose up a little and saw his face.  It was red, the teeth clenched tightly, and the mouth drawn down at the corners.  His eyes were fixed eagerly on his cork in the hope of seeing it bob for a moment and then be drawn swiftly under.

“Good old George,” said Dick, under his breath.  “He hates to be beaten—­ well, so do we all.”

Pennington caught another fish and then Dick drew in his second.  Warner did not have a bite since his first miss and his two comrades did not spare him.  They insinuated that there were no fish in Vermont, and they doubted whether the state had any rivers either.  In any event it was obvious that Warner had never fished before.  For several minutes they carried on this conversation, the words, in a way, as they went back and forth, passing directly by his head.  But Warner did not speak.  He merely clenched his teeth more tightly and watched his floating cork.  Meanwhile Dick caught his third fish and then Pennington equaled him.  Now their taunts, veiled but little, became more numerous.

Warner never spoke, nor did he take his eyes from his cork.  He had heard every word, but he would not show annoyance.  He was compelled to see Dick draw in yet another fine fellow, while his own cork seemed to have all the qualities of a lifeboat.  It danced and bobbed around, but apparently it had not the slightest intention of sinking.  Why did he have such luck, or rather lack of it?  Was fortune going to prove unkind to the good old rock-ribbed Green Mountain State?

There came a tremendous jerk upon the line!  The cork shot down like a bullet, but Warner, making a mighty pull and snap with the rod, landed a glorious gleaming fish upon the bank, a full two feet in length, probably as large as any that had ever been caught in that stream.  He detached the hook and looked down at his squirming prize, while Dick and Pennington also came running to see.

“I’ve been waiting for you, my friend,” said Warner serenely to the fish.  “Various small brothers of yours have come along and looked at my bait, but I’ve always moved it out of reach, leaving them to fall a prey to my friends who are content with little things.  I had to wait for you some time, O King of Fishes, but you came at last and you are mine.”