Sure enough, he had. It looked like a big one the way it pulled and jumped and sloshed around. Collins reeled and splashed around considerable himself, all the time getting closer to where we were. Then before you could say “Bingo” he stepped on something slippery—a smooth stone, I guess—and let out a yell. His feet went up and he went down ker-splash! For a second he floundered around like a hog in a puddle, throwing water all over the scenery, but he scrambled back onto his feet, with his pole still in his hand.
“He h-held it out of water all the t-t-time,” says Mark, sort of admiringly. “He’s the stick-to-it kind.”
It’s the way a fellow acts when he’s alone that counts. Collins might have got mad and shook his fist and talked strong language, but he didn’t. He just grinned kind of sheepish and went right on working with his fish till he got it close to him. Then he grabbed his little net and scooped it up.
“Whoop!” says he, taking it in his hand. “Ten inches, and speckled!”
Mark stood up. “D-do you always catch ’em that way?” he asked. “I never fished for trout, but if it’s n-n-necessary to dive after ’em I calc’late I’ll st-stick to perch.”
Collins grinned first and then said: “Hello! What you doing here?”
“Explorin’,” says Mark.
“Stopping near?”
Mark jerked his thumb back toward Uncle Hieronymous’s.
“Who with?”