He knew it all by heart, having many a time drunk in old Dimsted's words, and he remembered that he could tell what fish was biting by the way the float moved. If it was a bream, it would throw the float up so that it lay flat on the water. If it was a roach, it would give a short quick bob. If it was a perch, it would give a bob, and then a series of sharp quick bobs, the last of which would be right under, while if it was a tench, it would glide slowly away.

But the float did nothing but float, and nothing in the way of bobbing, while the shabby boy on the other side kept on striking, and every now and then hooking a fish.

"Isn't he lucky!" thought Dexter, and he pulled out his line to find that the bait had gone.

He began busily renewing it in a very _nonchalant_ manner, as he was conscious of the fact that the boy was watching him keenly with critical eyes.

Dexter threw in again; but there was no bite, and as the time went on, it seemed as if all the fish had been attracted to the other side of the river, where the shabby-looking boy, who fished skilfully and well, kept on capturing something at the rate of about one every five minutes.

They were not large, but still they were fish, and it was most tantalising to one to be patiently waiting, while the other was busy landing and rebaiting and throwing in again.

At last a happy thought struck Dexter, and after shifting his float about from place to place, he waited till he saw the boy looking at him, and he said--

"I say?"

"Hullo!" came back, the voices easily pa.s.sing across the water.

"What are you baiting with?"

"Gentles."

"Oh!"

Then there was a pause, and more fishing on one side, waiting on the other. At last the shabby boy said--

"You're baiting with worms, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"Ah, they won't bite at worms much this time o' day."

"Won't they?" said Dexter, putting out his line.

"No. And you ain't fishing deep enough."

"Ain't I!"

"No. Not by three foot."

"I wish I'd got some gentles," said Dexter at last.

"Do you!"

"Yes."

"Shall I shy some over in the box?"

"Can you throw so far?"

"Yers!" cried the shabby boy. "You'll give me the box again, won't you?"

"Yes; I'll throw it back."

The boy on the other side divided his bait by putting some in a piece of paper. Then putting a stone in his little round tin box, he walked back a few yards so as to give himself room, stepped forward, and threw the box right across, Dexter catching it easily.

"Now, you try one o' them," said the donor of the fresh bait.

Dexter eagerly did as was suggested, and five minutes after there was a sharp tug, which half drew his float below the surface.

"Why, you didn't strike," said the boy sharply.

"Well, you can't strike 'em till you've got hold of them," retorted Dexter; and the shabby-looking boy laughed.

"Yah!" he said; "you don't know how to fish."

"Don't I! Why, I was taught to fish by some one who knows all about it."

"So it seems," said the boy jeeringly. "Don't even know how to strike a fish. There, you've got another bite. Look at him; he's running away with it."

It was no credit to Dexter that he got hold of that fish, for the unfortunate roach had hooked itself.

As the float glided away beneath the surface, Dexter gave a tremendous s.n.a.t.c.h with the rod, and jerked the fish out of the water among the branches of an overhanging tree, where the line caught, and the captive hung suspended about a foot below a cl.u.s.ter of twigs, flapping about and trying to get itself free.

Dexter's fellow-fisherman burst into a roar of laughter, laid down his rod, and stamped about on the opposite bank slapping his knees, while the unlucky fisherman stood with his rod in his hand, jigging the line.

"You'll break it if you don't mind," cried the shabby boy.

"But I want to get it out."

"You shouldn't have struck so hard. Climb up the tree, get out on that branch, and reach down."

Dexter looked at the tree, which hung over the water to such an extent that it seemed as if his weight would tear it from its hold in the bank, while the water looked terribly deep and black beneath.

"I say," cried the shabby boy jeeringly; "who taught you how to fish!"

"Why, old Dimsted did, and he knew."

"Who did!" cried the boy excitedly.

"Old Dimsted."

"Yah! That he didn't. Why, he's been in the House these ten years-- ever since I was quite a little un."

"Well, I know that," shouted back Dexter. "He taught me all the same."

"Why, how came you to know grandfather!" cried the shabby boy.

Dexter ceased pulling at the line, and looked across at his shabbily-dressed questioner. For the first time he glanced down at his well-made clothes, and compared his personal appearance with that of the boy opposite, and in a curiously subtle way he began to awake to the fact that he was growing ashamed of the workhouse, and the people in it.