"Yes, sah, Colonel!"
"Um! Well, see that you mind!"
Selecting with care a fly from his numerous collection, and hoping the appetites of the fish would incline them to consider it favorably that morning, Colonel Ashley proceeded to make his casts, standing not far from a bent, gnarled and twisted elm tree, that overhung the bank of the stream where the current had cut into the soil, making a deep eddy, in which a lazy trout might choose to lie in wait for some choice morsel.
Lightly as a falling feather, the fisherman let his fly come to rest on the sun-lit water, and, hardly had it sent the first, few faint ripples circling toward shore than there was a shrill song of the reel, and the rod became a bent bow.
"By the bones of Sir Izaak!" cried the colonel, "I've hooked one, Shag!"
"De Lord be praised! So yo' has, Colonel!" cried the negro.
"Shut up!" ordered the colonel, who was beginning to play his fish.
"Did I tell you to speak?"
But Shag only laughed. He knew his master.
After ten minutes of skilful work, during which time the trout nearly got away by shooting under a submerged log like an undersea boat diving beneath a battle cruiser, the colonel landed his fish, dropping it, panting, on the green grass. Then he looked up at Shag and remarked:
"Didn't I tell you this was a perfectly beautiful day?"