But Menendez put his line out for him.

He didn't want me to do it.
Then we stood there in the sand, with the water nearly up to our knees every time the waves came in, and waited for a bite.

There wasn't much biting.

Menendez said that the tide was too low, but I've noticed that something is always too something, every time any one takes me out fishing, so I didn't mind that.
Menendez did hook one fellow, I think, for he gave a tremendous jerk at his line, and began to skip inshore as if he were but ten years old; but it was of no use.

The fish changed his mind.
Then we stood and waited a while longer, until, all of a sudden, Rectus made a skip.