“Well, catch me assassinating angleworms when I can use one of these little bedizened bugs,” he said, selecting a silver doctor from the fly-book. “I’m a sportsman. No squirms for mine.”
David urged the canoe to a spot touched by the shadows of the overhanging trees. “Here’s the place, Walt. Cast over there, just this side of those weeds.”
Swickey had already made a cast, and she sat watching Bascomb as he whipped the fly here and there, finally letting it settle a few feet from where her line cut the water.
“Nothing doing. I’ll try over here.” The fly soared across the surface of the pool and dropped gently over the weeds.
“Not at home! Well, we’ll call again. Hey! Swickey, look at your rod!”
Swickey’s hand was on the reel, and she thrust the butt of the rod toward the flash of silver and red that shot from the water and swirled down again with a splash that spattered her arms with flying drops.
“You’ve got him!” shouted Bascomb. “He’s a bird!”
The tense line whipped singing back and forth. The trout whirled up again and shook himself. Then he shot for deeper water, taking the line out with a bur-r-r from the spinning reel. Swickey recovered the line slowly until he was close to the canoe. “He’s only pretending,” she said. “He’ll fight some more.”
Suddenly the line swung toward the boat as the trout made a final play for freedom. Her quick fingers flashing, Swickey reeled in, stopping the fish almost under the canoe. “If he gets under, I’ll lose him. But he’s getting tired. I can feel it.”
With cautious deliberation she worked the fish upward and slowly slid her hand down the line. With a quick twist she flopped the trout into the canoe and held him while she extracted the hook.