“It’s only a wise old trout I’ve tried to tempt in half a hundred ways. Perhaps I can show him to you, when we return. He’s marked and he’s a beauty; but he won’t bite. Come on.”
“All right.” Her voice was joyous with anticipation.
“Now, be quiet.” Fred led the way along the willowy trails. “There’s a good chance—see where the ripples smooth into that quiet pool. Just cast your fly on the dancing waters and skim it over them.”
Alta tried to follow directions, but unskilled in handling a line, she landed her hook, not on the ripples, but into a willow snag.
“Oh, pshaw! now I’ve spoiled it all,” she exclaimed.
“Sh’,” cautioned the boy, “that’s only fisherman’s luck.” He loosened the line quickly. “Now try again.”
The second fling brought better results. With a tiny splash, the fly struck the water, and danced down the ripples. It had hardly reached the quieter waters when a lusty trout grabbed it.
“Oh, oh!” she cried, “I’ve caught one!”
“Not yet,” Fred warned her; “be careful.”
The words were scarcely off his lips when flip! the empty hook shot into the air, and a scared trout shot back into the pool.