“Yes, I see you have—I think it’s infernally mean.”
“I know it is, but I can’t help it. I’ve got to come down there again.”
“Well, come on,” and I sat down again to watch the issue. The struggle was not so brave, though the fish, when brought to scale, weighed half a pound more than the first. While we were commenting on this streak of luck, we noticed a change in the water, its partially clear hue began to grow milky, and in less time than it takes to tell it, a bowlder six inches under the surface was out of sight.
“We might as well go to dinner, no trout will try to rise in that mud,” and I reeled up with the reflection that the next best thing to catching a trout is to see one captured by one who knows how.
The next day we had another try. Chum crossed the river, and then we slowly walked down to a magnificent pool a mile below. Here were a party of half a dozen gentlemen, to one of whom I called out just as we came within hearing.
“Have you got him?” The inquiry was made on the score of good fellowship; the bend of his split bamboo, the tension of his line, and the whirr of his reel indicated the first stage.
“I’ve hooked him, and he’s no sardine, I tell you—whoa, boy, gently now,” as a sudden rush strung off full twenty feet of line. “Whoa, boy, be easy now; gently, now; come here; whoa! confound your picture! whoa, boy, gently, so, boy.”
“May be you think you are driving a mule,” came from one of the anglers.
“Oh, no! I’m trying to lead one—whoa, boy, whoa, boy, gently, now, none of your capers—whoa! I tell you!” as a renewed and vigorous dash for liberty threatened destruction to the slender tackle. “No you don’t, old fellow, so, boy, that’s a good fellow,” and showing his back near the surface, the captive exhibited twenty inches (at a guess) of trout.
“By George, he’s a beauty,” came from behind us.