“It certainly is all alone,” said John. “I saw a trail back in there which I’ll bet was made by caribou. And there’s beaver in here yet, I’m sure.”
“Yes, and trout,” exclaimed Jesse. “Look at that fellow rise! We’ll get some sure. What fly are you going to use, John?”
“Let’s try the Coachman—I’ve noticed that in the mountains trout nearly always run at something white, and the white wings look as good as anything to me.”
“All right,” said Jesse, and soon they were both casting as far as they could from the shore.
“Out there is a sort of reef or rocks,” said John; “I’ll bet there’s fish there. Now if I could—Aha!” he cried. “Got him! No!” he exclaimed, a minute later. “There’s two!”
As a matter of fact, John was a good caster for one of his age, and he had laid out thirty or forty feet of line when there came a silvery flash from below, followed by a second one, as two fine trout fastened at his two flies.
“I can hardly hold them, Jess,” said he, “but my! don’t they look fine down in that clear water? Rainbows, both of them, and about a pound each, I think.”
It was some time before John could control his two hard-fighting fish; but after a time, with Jesse assisting, he got them out on the hard gravel beach.
“Now you try out there, Jess,” said he. “Cast out there where the bottom looks black—that’s where they lie.”
“All right,” said Jesse; and, to be sure, he had fished but a few moments before a splash and a tug told him that he too had hooked a fine trout.