“What’s trolling?” asked Polly. “A troll’s a kind of gnome, isn’t it?”
“Not in Wyoming. Up here you troll for trout.”
“I thought you trailed for them,” said Sue. “Don’t you trail the bait along on the top of the water, and kind of skip it?”
“There was a boy used to come and play with Stoney,” Polly added. “A little colored boy from down the river, and he said he knew how to lie down on the bank, and reach under, and grab the trout.”
“Now, Polly, if you develop into a teller of trout tales, you’ll be worse than Don. Listen.” Jean rose from the hammock. “First of all, you must fish up-stream. No standing still, and waiting for the fish to bite. You must learn how to hunt the best spots, and then to cast well. Trout lie with heads pointed up-stream, and hunt the shadowy nooks. Peggie and Don are our best catchers.”
“It’s all in the way you cast and troll,” spoke up Peggie, half shyly. “You mustn’t throw out heavily, or you scare them away, and you must draw the fly very, very lightly along. Don’s caught them with worms, but I like the flies best. We’ll go fishing to-morrow.”
“Not so soon,” protested Jean. “They want to get up early, and take a ride before breakfast to-morrow, and you’ll need a good misty morning for successful fishing. Did you ride all the way over to Sandy’s, Peg?”
Peggie nodded happily, and smiled.
“Mrs. Sandy says she’s glad they got here all safe and sound, and she wants us all to ride over as soon as we can.”
“Next week we will ride over,” Jean said. “I want you to be accustomed to the saddle, girls, first. We will ride every day, somewhere around home here, and there are a good many interesting things to see. There are Indian graves up in the hills, and the Picture Rocks down the river; plenty to keep you busy.”