On Sunday Martin had nothing to do, so he decided to go fishing. He managed to slip out of the house on the sly, before his parents were awake. He decided to sit where the riverbank formed a gentle slope, and, casting his line onto the water, watched the hook sink into the clear depths below. After a while, he looked up and noticed that a girl was sitting on the opposite bank of the river. In an almost simultaneous motion, the girl looked up from what she was doing and their eyes met. He sized her up mentally. She was rather smart in appearance, with a figure so slim that the blades of her collarbone could plainly be seen. She was wearing a long skirt with a short slit up the sides and she had slender legs. Martin felt his heart skip a beat. He had always been a skeptic as far as affairs of the heart were concerned, but he was aware that the girl seemed to be watching him, and couldn’t help wondering why; he was sure it must signify something.
The girl had a wad of paper on her knee and was engrossed in making a sketch. Martin plucked up his courage and smiled at her, but she made no particular response, merely continued to slide her pencil quietly over her sketchpad as before. Not really knowing what to do in this kind of situation, Martin’s first reaction was to return to his fishing, but a glance at his line showed that it was still slack, and, indeed, Martin had no particular desire to catch a fish, which he would either have to throw back into the water or kill. He tried, for a while, to simulate unconcern, but when that didn’t work he decided to attract her attention, and picking up a slice of stone he threw it onto the river at an acute angle which he knew would make it skim the surface of the water and slam into the other bank.
The girl was unimpressed. Then, suddenly, she spoke. “Finished,” she said. “Want to have a look?” then without waiting for his answer; she strolled over the little footbridge and showed him what she had been sketching. It was a caricature of Martin, in thigh-length fisherman’s boots, proudly holding aloft the skeleton of an absolutely monstrous fish. “Keep it”, she said, “it’s for you!”
The girl had a wad of paper on her knee and was engrossed in making a sketch. Martin plucked up his courage and smiled at her, but she made no particular response, merely continued to slide her pencil quietly over her sketchpad as before. Not really knowing what to do in this kind of situation, Martin’s first reaction was to return to his fishing, but a glance at his line showed that it was still slack, and, indeed, Martin had no particular desire to catch a fish, which he would either have to throw back into the water or kill. He tried, for a while, to simulate unconcern, but when that didn’t work he decided to attract her attention, and picking up a slice of stone he threw it onto the river at an acute angle which he knew would make it skim the surface of the water and slam into the other bank.
The girl was unimpressed. Then, suddenly, she spoke. “Finished,” she said. “Want to have a look?” then without waiting for his answer; she strolled over the little footbridge and showed him what she had been sketching. It was a caricature of Martin, in thigh-length fisherman’s boots, proudly holding aloft the skeleton of an absolutely monstrous fish. “Keep it”, she said, “it’s for you!”