“I enjoy fishing,” he answered with a sinking heart, “but that wouldn’t bring your father a fish. I never have any luck. To-day we must be pot hunters and work for results.”
“Well, if Daddy wishes a trout he ought to have one I suppose,” she thought aloud.
“Undoubtedly,” he declared.
“Then I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
“May I dig the bait while you’re gone?” he inquired.
“The trout rise very well to flies,” she informed him.
For which he was glad. He was not prudishly sensitive about such things but still he would not enjoy watching her impale a worm. It was a wriggling function that he himself did not particularly relish, less from humanitarian than æsthetic scruples.
She returned dressed in a short khaki skirt of hunting green, a wide-brimmed boy’s straw hat and with a wicker fish-basket slung over her shoulder. Her feet were encased in high oiled boots. She stepped to the closet and brought out two rod cases, a book of flies, and two reels.
“Have you any choice of weight?” she asked holding out both rods.
“You’d better give me the heavier one,” he suggested off hand.