“I think the trout will take flies. That is what they are jumping for,” replied Harriet. “Where will I find the flies?”
“In the box under the rear seat.”
“Thay, Harriet!” piped Tommy.
“Yes?”
“Catch me an oythter for breakfatht.”
Harriet paused from jointing Jane’s rod long enough to join in the merriment at Tommy’s expense.
“Have you a dusty miller, Jane?” she asked, glancing up with flushed face.
“I don’t know whether or not he’s dusty, but there’s an insect in there that they call a miller. Dad says it’s a killer. I never saw it show its teeth. It’s my opinion that it would be a fool fish that would bite a thing like that.”
“You wait and see,” chuckled Harriet, fixing the leader of the fly to the silk line, then balancing the rod by its butt, swinging the line this way and that through the air to see how the reel worked.
“It will be too late by the time you get ready to fish,” reminded Miss Elting.