Far behind on one side of the skiff stretched Jock’s line, and on the other was Bob’s, and as they paid out the slender cord they could see that their friends in the other boat, which was distant about two hundred yards, had followed their example.
“This is what I call great sport,” said Jock, contentedly.
“It is pretty good,” replied Bob. “At least it isn’t what you call actual labor, except for Ethan. I think it’s rather my way of fishing. I’ve heard them tell about catching trout with an eight-ounce rod, and how a fellow has to crawl through the bushes and tumble over the logs, and then he makes his cast. He mustn’t move, they say, not even if a million million mosquitoes and black flies light on his hand; and then if he succeeds, at last he yanks up a little speckled trout that weighs about four ounces, and he thinks he’s had a great catch. No, I think this is the situation which is better adapted to my precious and delicate frame,” and as he spoke Bob stretched himself out lazily in his chair and permitted his rod to rest on the boat, while he gazed about him with an air of deep satisfaction and content.
And truly there was much to produce that feeling. The early sunlight now flashed across the water and covered all things with its halo. In the distance were the dark green forests, and here and there among the islands, or on the main shore, the rising curls of smoke indicated the location of the cottages or summer camps. The very air was a tonic; or, as Jock declared, ‘it seemed to him it was so laden with life that he could almost bite it off.’
And all the time the two boats were moving slowly and steadily over the water, Ethan pulling lightly at the oars and from time to time glancing keenly at the lines, which seemed to fade away in the river. The calls of the far-away crows or the sight of a great hawk circling high in the heavens above them only increased the wildness of the scene, and for a time the roar of the great city and the sight of its crowded streets seemed only like the memory of a dream. Even the occupation in which the boys were supposed to be engaged seemed unreal, and Bob closed his eyes dreamily and permitted the rays of the sun to strike him full in the face.
“I say, Ethan,” said Bob, opening his eyes lazily, “don’t you think it hurts the fish you put on those hooks?”
“Hurt ’em? Naw! Fish hasn’t any feelin’s.”
“How do you know that, Ethan?”
“They never make no complaint, do they?”