“Naturalist?” he inquired.
“Ichthyologist—fish sharp,” said Harrison, nodding. “I’m writing a series of articles for a sporting paper on fly-fishing, and I’m experimenting to see how different flies actually look when seen through water. See here.”
And he hauled up from the water a long gut cast, decorated with a number of trout and bass flies placed at short intervals.
“Studying baits from the point of view of the fish,” he went on. “At the same time I observe the movements of the fish while feeding.”
Tom looked at this apparatus with considerable respect.
“Are you writing for one of the Toronto papers?” he asked. “I know most of them.”
“Are you from Toronto?” said Harrison quickly. “You’re not by chance related to Jackson the lumber merchant there, are you?”
“Why—er—yes, I am some relation of his,” returned Tom, embarrassed. He bent to look through the glass again, and a memory of a legend of the Coboconk lakes came into his mind.
“Haven’t seen anything of the lost raft down there, have you?” he inquired, laughingly.
“Never heard of it. What is it?”