There were three other boats to the left of them.  McTurk was their
only neighbour in the darkness on the right.  Once they heard him
swearing softly to himself, and knew that he had hooked and lost a
fish.

Away down at the tail of the pool, dimly visible through the gloom,
the furtive fisherman, Parsons, had anchored his boat.  No noise
ever came from that craft.  If he wished to change his position, he
did not pull up the anchor and let it down again with a bump.  He
simply lengthened or shortened his anchor rope.  There was no click
of the reel when he played a fish.  He drew in and paid out the line
through the rings by hand, without a sound.  What he thought when a
fish got away, no one knew, for he never said it.  He concealed his
angling as if it had been a conspiracy.  Twice that night they heard
a faint splash in the water near his boat, and twice they saw him
put his arm over the side in the darkness and bring it back again
very quietly.

"That's the second fish for Parsons," whispered Beekman, "what a
secretive old Fortunatus he is!  He knows more about fishing than
any man on the pool, and talks less."

Cornelia did not answer.  Her thoughts were all on the tip of her
own rod.  About eleven o'clock a fine, drizzling rain set in.  The
fishing was very slack.  All the other boats gave it up in despair;
but Cornelia said she wanted to stay out a little longer, they might
as well finish up the week.

At precisely fifty minutes past eleven, Beekman reeled up his line,
and remarked with firmness that the holy Sabbath day was almost at
hand and they ought to go in.