"Old Bobbins has got the first bite," chuckled Tom, under his breath, as he made his cast.
The reel whirred and the hook fell with a light splash into a little eddy where the water seemed to swirl about a sunken rock.
"You won't catch anything there," asid Isadore.
"I'll gag you if you don't shut up," promised Tom.
Suddenly his line straightened out. The hook seemed to be sucked right down into a hole between the rocks, and the reel began to whir. It stopped and Tom tried it.
"Pshaw! that ain't a bite," whispered Isadore.
At Tom's first attempt to reel in, the fish that had seized his hook started—for Spain! At least, it shot seaward, and the boy knew that Spain was about the nearest dry land if the fish kept on in that direction.
"A strike!" Tom gasped and let his reel sing for a moment or two. Then, when the drag of the line began to tell on the bass, he carefully wound in some of it. The fish turned and finally ran toward the rocks once more. Then Tom wound up as fast as he could, trying to keep the line taut.
"He'll tangle you all up, Tommy," declared Bob, unable, like Isadore, to keep entirely still.
Tom was flushed and excited, but said never a
