"How big is he, Miss Gay?"
The voice was cool and steady.
"He's five pounds if he's an ounce," her voice trembled. "He's the biggest trout that ever swam.
"He isn't a trout," said Pritchard; "he's a char."
If Gay could have seen Pritchard's face, she would have been struck for the first time by a sort of serene beauty that pervaded some of its expressions. The smile which he turned upon her crouching figure had in it a something almost angelic.
"Bring him a little nearer," she cried, "just a little."
"You're sure he weighs more than three pounds?"
"Sure—sure—don't talk, land him, land him——"
For answer Pritchard heaved strongly upward upon his rod and lifted the mighty fish clear of the water. One titanic convulsion of tortured muscles, and what was to be expected happened. The leader broke a few inches from the trout's lip, and he returned splashing to his native element, swam off slowly, just under the surface, then dove deep, and was seen no more.