I was nearest, and got there first.
I seized Rectus by the shoulder, and pulled him back a little.
"Whew-w!" said he; "how this twine cuts!" Then I took hold of the line in front of him, and there was no mistaking the fact--he had a big fish on the other end of it.
"Run out!" cried Menendez, who thought there was no good of three fellows hauling on the line; and out we ran.
When we had gone up the beach a good way, I looked back and saw a rousing big fish flopping about furiously in the shallow water.
"Go on!" shouted Menendez; and we ran on until we had pulled it high and dry up on the sand.
Then Menendez fell afoul of it to take out the hook, and we hurried back to see it.

It was a whopping big bass, and by the powerful way it threw itself around on the sand, I didn't wonder that Rectus ran into the water when he got the first jerk.
Now, this was something like sport, and we all felt encouraged, and went to work again with a will, only Menendez untied the line from Rectus's waist and fastened it to his button-hole.
"It may pull out," he said; "but, on the whole, it's better to lose a fishin'-line than a boy." We fished quietly and steadily for some time, but got no more bites, when suddenly I heard some one say, behind me: "They don't ever pull in!" I turned around, and it was a girl.

She was standing there with a gentleman,--her father, I soon found out,--and I don't know how long they had been watching us.

She was about thirteen years old, and came over with her father in a sail-boat.

I remembered seeing them cruising around as we were sailing over.
"They haven't got bites," said her father; "that's the reason they don't pull in." It was very disagreeable to me, and I know it was even more so to Rectus, to stand here and have those strangers watch us fishing.