The finest fishing in the lakes of northern Maine is just as the ice goes out. Then the big trout are hungry after the long winter beneath the ice, and lucky is the fisherman who is there at the time.
As the boys returned to the wharf with their rods it happened that there was an open space just out in front. Bob was first to have a fly lazily floating on the surface of the water, but it had hardly struck the surface before it disappeared and a tug at the line told the boy that he had hooked the first fish of the season. From the way the reel whined as the line ran out he knew that it was a big one. He pressed on the drag as hard as he dared but it seemed to have little effect.
“You’ll have to make it snappy or you’ll lose him,” Jack shouted. “That opening’s going to close in a minute or two, and if he gets under the ice, good night.”
Bob saw that what his brother had said was true, and, for the moment, was uncertain what was best to be done. But just then he noticed that the line was slacking and he hastened to reel in. He had recovered about half of the line when the fish darted off again and he was forced to let the line run.
“You’ll have to pull him,” Jack shouted. “He’ll be under that cake in another minute.”
Bob, realizing the truth of Jack’s statement, quickly lowered the light rod and caught hold of the line. Now it was simply a question of the strength of the line. Would it hold or would it break?
“It’s a good thing that’s a new line,” Jack cried, dancing about in his excitement as Bob began to pull in carefully, hand over hand.
“Nothing very sportsmanlike about this way of landing a fish,” he declared. “But we need that fellow for dinner.”
Slowly, foot by foot, the fish came in until finally it was flapping at their feet.
“Eight pounds if he’s an ounce,” Jack declared, as he picked the fish up by the gills and held it out at arm’s length.