Keeping on down stream, he soon had ten fish strung on a willow twig, and the load was so heavy that he turned from the river and, passing through a fringe of timber, found himself near camp.
Joe was sitting not far from the fire half in the smoke, and was rubbing a lot of green leaves between his palms and then passing his hands over his face, neck and arms. Hugh, not so near the fire, was smoking vigorously, but seemed to be little troubled by the mosquitoes. The horses were still standing together, crowded into the smoke.
“Well, son,” said Hugh, “that’s a nice string of fish you’ve got. You’ve done well. That ought to last us for a couple of meals. Did you find the fish plenty?”
“Yes,” replied Jack, “there are lots of them, and I want to ask you some questions about them. In the first place that pool right under the falls there is just full of fish, and yet not one of them would rise to my flies. I looked at them pretty carefully and I don’t believe they’re trout. Do you know what they are?”
“Peamouths, I reckon,” answered Hugh.
“Peamouths?” said Jack. “I think I’ve heard that name, but I don’t know what it means.”
“Why,” replied Hugh, “it’s a kind of a brook white fish, I reckon. They’re quite a little like the white fish that we catch in the lake here, and yet they’re different, smaller, different in color and the mouth is some different, too. Some people call them stone rollers. I don’t know just why, unless, perhaps, they turn over the stones at the bottom of the stream when they’re looking for food; but that’s just my guess from the name.”
“Well,” said Jack, “if we get a chance I’d like to catch one and see it, so that I’ll know it again.
“And now, Hugh,” he went on, “what kind of a trout is that?” and he pointed to one of the red-spotted fish on his string.
“That’s a bull trout,” answered Hugh.