The annual fishing competition was finished, and the fishermen of Mostleigh Harmless gathered in the bar of the Sober Newt to await the verdict of the judges.
“That’s very curious,” Reid suddenly remarked.
“What is?” asked his friend Wilson.
“The number of fish that I caught is exactly the same as the number of letters in my surname.”
Wilson thought for a moment. “Me too.”
“And me,” added Jones, who had been buying a round and had returned to the table bearing the fruits of his labours.
“Rubbish!” scoffed the landlord. “You fishermen always tell tall tales! I’ve seen…
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