“How d' do? Come ag'in,” he said, as he continued to work his line. “Tut, tut! you're another!” he exclaimed, with a sharp twitch.
The trout was a large one, and Uncle Eb, with a six-ounce rod, had not been able to lift and swing him ashore in the old fashion. He held on with jiggling hands and a look of great animation as the fish took line in half a dozen quick rushes.
“You're tryin' to jerk me out o' my boots”—the words were emphasized and broken here and there by the struggle. The rod's vibration had got into his voice and all the upper part
of his body. “Stop that, ye scalawag!” he went on. “Consarn ye, come here to me!”
He seized the line, flung his rod on the shore, and began to haul vigorously hand over hand. When the splendid fish lay gasping at his feet, Uncle Eb turned to me and shook his head. He sat breathing hard, as if the exertion had wearied him. Soon he took out his jack-knife, a serious look on his face.
“You go cut me an alder pole,” said he, with decision. “That thing ain't no better'n a spear o' grass.”
I ran up the shore, glad of the chance he had given me to conceal my laughter. I cut a long, stout pole among the bushes, and returned, trimming it as I ran.