"Hang to it, Bean! There, we'll get it! Whoop! Gee, ain't he a fighter?"
Bean yielded up the rod with twinkling eyes.
"Fer a tenderfoot who don't fish, yu can work up what looks mighty like a taste fer it."
He hung precariously over the water and scooped unsuccessfully at a shining back that showed for a moment.
"Let 'er run, dang yu! Let 'er run. Yu got to get 'er to shallow water."
After a struggle, in which Stamford objected to assistance, but was unable to complete the catch himself, Bean stepped into shallow water and clutched the sturgeon. Stamford looked down on it with blazing eyes.
"Mister Stamford," grinned Bean, "if yu wasn't born a fisherman, yer shure goin' ter die one."
"Bean," said Stamford, "I'll crave your kind assistance to the extent of baiting that hook again. Then—no more. I'll bring the next fellow in myself or die in the attempt."
Stamford went back to the hole. Nothing happened. He waited several minutes, yawned, frowned, and leaned back against the rock.
"That one," he declared, pointing to the still wriggling fish, "had this whole darn river to itself. My line says so." He yawned again. "Bean," suddenly, "you're my friend, aren't you?"