I just agreed. “All of that,” said I. “Only it’s Walter. He’s that way, and I can’t change it. It’s pretty selfish of course”—and I looked sidewise to see if the criminal was taking in things, but not an eyelash quivered.
The outraged Mr. Spafford held out a disgusted hand in answer to mine. “I shall tell Mr. Engelhardt, and he will believe me, but he will not understand. No reasonable person could understand that a sane man would throw away the governorship for a fish. Good-by.”
At that Walter looked up with the nice beaming smile which makes him so popular and said pleasantly: “Good-by, Mr. Spafford. Sorry you have to go. It would be nice to be governor, Mr. Spafford, but it’s necessary to finish the job I’m on.” And in two minutes more the dumfounded youth was in a canoe between Henri and Godin, and the paddles were flashing down-stream beyond the Golden Pool.
Walter played the trout twenty minutes more—forty-five minutes in all. There were more rushes, and more sulking, but the runs were shorter each time, and the brute was plainly getting tired. At last the battle was practically over, and the huge fish was swimming near the surface, rolling on its side and flapping its fins helplessly, and Walter drew it this way and that, waiting to land it till the psychological moment when it should be too tired to shy at the net and break loose, as happens often after a great fight. Zoëtique knelt by him on the rocks, intent and excited, but responsible, and dipped the net softly in the stream to make it pliable, and then held its mouth toward the moving fish, following its course, ready every second for Walter’s signal.
“Now!” said Walter, and the net swept toward the trout, and the trout, with a last effort, splashed, tore, ran—Zoëtique had missed him.
We all gasped in unison. Then for two or three minutes more the fish was played gently, carefully, back and forth, near the surface always now, and then suddenly Walter’s chin lifted, and Zoëtique, half in the water himself, brought the net around and up with a splendid sweep, and in it, high in air, flapping and splashing spray over us, was the great trout! And when the net was lowered, and Zoëtique got out his big dirk to finish the beast with a rap on the skull, v’là! he fell off the fly into the net. Lightly hooked as that, and Walter had saved him! It sure was a mighty fish-fight!
My! you ought to have heard Walter sigh. And one minute later you ought to have seen him grin. It was an hour of glory. Then the guides were given cigars and drinks, as is seemly at a great killing, and then the scales were dug out. Six and seven-eighths, just short of seven, the record in the club for the Salmo-Fontinalis on a fly. Of course, they’re taken up to nine pounds in our waters in spring, but that’s trolling, and no credit to anybody. The whale of the Golden Pool holds the record, to this writing, for sporting fishing.
And here ends the first chapter. Walter claims that here ends the story, and that the sequel is a detached incident. But I am now come to man’s estate, and I happen to have a perfectly able hunch of my own about that. It’s the sequel—I give it.
“Now!” said Walter, and the net swept toward the trout.