Some distance above the pool Dick stepped into the water. He walked along slowly, not stirring up much dirt from the bottom. All the time he kept his line behind him, frequently lifting it and whipping it into the water again. The gayly colored flies and the glistening spoon just above the hook flashed in the sunlight every time he made a whipping cast.
Not twenty feet had Dick gone when he felt a sudden, violent tug. With the true patience of the trout fisherman, Dick didn't become at all excited. His hand on the reel, he let the line fly out as the finny captive darted up stream.
Presently Dick played the fish in gently, then suddenly gave it plenty of slack line. These tactics were repeated, while Dave and Greg almost danced in their eagerness.
Suddenly Dick flipped his pole sharply. There was a swish of line in the air. Something speckled and glistening dropped on the ground at least ten feet from the brook, where it lay floundering and gasping.
"Hoo-ray!" yelled Greg, with all his pent-up enthusiasm.
"Do that again, Holmesy, and I'll chase you back into camp," warned Dick, with his patient smile. Then he stepped ashore, took the trout from the line and impaled it on a stick, which he gave Greg to carry.
Within two minutes there was another strike. The same patient tactics, and Dick had another trout—-this time a two-pounder as against about three quarters of a pound for the weight of the first trout.
The third trout got away, despite the most careful handling, but the fourth and fifth biters were soon landed.
"I can't stand this any longer," quivered Dave. "I've got to start in. Where do you want me to go, Dick?"
"Better go about a quarter of a mile upstream," Prescott suggested, "and then work down this way. Greg can go along with you and carry the stick for your string. I'll look out for my own string."