“Say, he’s a whopper! Three pounds if he’s a fish. And you did handle him well.”
“Now, kill him,” said Swickey. “Dave always does—right away.”
Bascomb managed, with directions from Swickey, to break the trout’s neck by putting his thumb under the upper jaw and bending the head back with a quick snap. Then he reeled in his fly. “I’ve a favor to ask, Swickey.”
She turned toward him, deceived by the gravity of his tone.
“It’s a great favor.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t assume the proper attitude of supplication, owing to the skittish disposition of this craft, but will you please pass the worms?”
Bascomb quickly duplicated Swickey’s success. Sportsmanship was forgotten in the wild joy of playing and landing big trout that fought every inch of the way to their final and somewhat ignominious handling from the water to the canoe. Flies, landing-nets, and fussiness might do for story-books and catalogues: they were catching fish.
David sat quietly watching them and smoking. Now and then he swung the canoe back into position as it drifted from the pool. The rocks gleamed gray-white on the opposite shore as the sun touched the western end of the woods and the air became refreshingly cooler.
“I don’t want to end the fun,” he said finally, “but it gets dark soon after six.”