“They ain’t ready for us,” persisted Phil glancing at the receding village. “We can’t keep flyin’ around till night. It’s only a quarter after one,” he exclaimed.
“We ain’t goin’ to fly around at all,” replied Frank as he set the Loon on a flight about four hundred feet from the ground. “We’re goin’ fishin’.”
“Fishin’?” repeated Phil. “You are crazy!”
“Sit down,” answered Frank with a smile, “and I’ll tell you where we are goin’.”
“What’s that?” said Phil who was far from sitting down. “That?” he repeated pointing to the forward end of the cabin.
“That,” answered Frank, “is a present I bought for you. It’s a Michel trout rod, reel, line and a couple of May flies. I tell you we’re goin’ fishin’. What’s the use o’ sleepin’ away an afternoon like this when you know the trout will be fightin’ for flies about four o’clock?”
“Well,” said Phil at last in a dazed tone, “I give up.”
“Now,” said Frank, “you’re talkin’ sense. While you were asleep I strolled over to the store. I began lookin’ over the trout tackle and got to talkin’ ‘fish.’ The clerk was awful strong for Fording River, which is up where we are goin’ to camp to-night. A few miles away the Fording cuts through some hills and east o’ these it’s full o’ trout. But the best fishin’, the clerk said, was beyond a little valley where the Fording comes through a second range o’ hills and tumbles over the rocks makin’ a fine waterfall.”
“And you’re goin’ up there and land on a hill or in a pine forest?” interrupted Phil.
“We’re goin’ there and land in a meadow at the foot o’ the Falls where the grass ain’t high enough to tangle us up and where you’re goin’ to get us a string o’ Cutthroat trout which, accordin’ to the clerk, are the finest fish in the world for looks, fight and flavor.”