"Dunna carry on a' that'n, Master Noll," said Joe. "I only com' up t'ouse
to bring you them daceys."

"And what the devil do I want with them?" said I angrily.

Joe knew me. He said, "There's a jack as big as a gate-post in that 'ole
between the reeds along th' 'igh bonk."

He saw the cock of my eye, and went on: "I saw 'im this mornin', an'
'eard 'im. 'E made a splosh like a sack o' taters droppin' off the bridge.
So I just copped 'e a few daceys, thinkin' as you'd be sure to go after
'im."

"Put them in some fresh water, Joe, and you, Jane, fill him another jug.
I'll own up to Mistress Kate for smashing the other."

I fetched my rod and tackle, picked up the bucket of dace, and set off
across the fields to the river. The bank nearer the house, and about three
hundred yards from it, stood from two to six feet above the water, being
lowest where a brick bridge carried the road to the village. The opposite
bank was very low, and was fringed in summer with great masses of reeds
and bulrushes, now withered down nearly to nothing, but still showing the
pocket of deep water where the jack had "sploshed like a sack o' taters."
It was opposite the highest part of our bank--the Hanyards was bounded by
the river in this direction--and the bridge was about one hundred yards
down-stream to my left. In a few minutes a fine dace was swimming in the
gap as merrily as the tackle would let him.

For an hour or more I took short turns up and down the bank, just far
enough from the edge to keep my cork in view. If the jack was there, he