Here Lance took a hand in the affair. He shouted across the stream:
“Have a care, there, Mister! If that dog is savage, don’t you turn him loose.”
“Who the dickens are you?” snarled the farmer. “This is my land, and it’s posted, and this here is my dawg––”
“Let me have that pistol of yours, Purt,” commanded Lance, firmly, reeling in his line.
The dude, who had stood open-mouthed and 172 shaking, could not follow Lance’s lead worth a cent. “You—you know, Lance,” he stammered, “the pistol won’t shoot––”
“Ho, ho!” cried the farmer, who had stopped abruptly when Lance had spoken. “Tryin’ to scare me, was you? Now you step lively, or I’ll let the dawg go.”
“You poor sport!” gasped Lance, scowling at the shaking dude.
Short and Long, having tempted the fates far enough, was winding up his own line. And just before the fly left the surface of the water a trout jumped for it and caught the hook.
“Whee!” yelled Short and Long, as the line reeled out, singing shrilly.
“Stop that!” yelled the man. “That’s my fish––”