Helen and the two boys had, the night before, arranged a fishing trip up to a cove some six miles up the lake where Jacques had told them he had caught the largest trout he had ever taken from the lake, and soon they were speeding through the water, Bob at the stern of the canoe and Jack in the bow, with the girl between them. It was a beautiful morning clear and cool and, despite the threatening letter, they were all in high spirits.
“What kind of fly had I better use?” Helen asked when they had reached their destination.
“I’m afraid flies wouldn’t be much good here, not at this time of year,” Bob explained. “You see the water’s very deep here and the fish feed near the bottom, so we brought along some shinners.”
“Then we’re going to troll?”
“Yes, it’s the only way to get the big fellows this late in the season. In May and early June they’ll take a fly all right.”
“Mercy, are you going to hitch on all that lead?” she asked a moment later as Bob took some heavy sinkers from his pocket.
“Have to keep your hook down near the bottom, in fifty feet of water,” he explained.
Quickly the lines were made ready and soon Bob was using his paddle just enough to keep the canoe barely moving, while he held his rod between his legs.
“Let out about a hundred feet of line,” he told her.
“Do they bite very hard?” she asked.