The man’s voice was a wail in the last sentences. Something in the boy’s friendly youthfulness had made it possible to pour out this tale of woe where with another wayfarer the unlucky fisherman would have kept his bitter counsel. His instinct was not wrong. The thought shot into Jack’s mind that here was a poor man, probably not able to afford vacations, who had put his hard-earned money into one and was failing to get the good of it. Like a young knight to a maiden in distress the boy rushed to the rescue.
“Now that’s just too darned bad,” he brought out heartily. “But you know, sir, it’s easy enough to set it all straight. Fishing is fun—almost the best fun going. I don’t want to butt in, but—you see I’ve been at this sort of thing all my days”—one thought involuntarily of Methuselah—“and I can’t help knowing the trick. I’m not a crack exactly, but—well, it’s second nature to me, and I’d simply love to show you if you wouldn’t think me fresh to offer.”
“Fresh!” the older man repeated. “If you would give me a few points I’d bless you. But you’re off on a trip yourself—I can’t take your time”—and the boy cut in there with joyful assurances, which there was no mistaking, as to his pleasure in helping.
“We’re just on a casual two days’ tramp, Josef and I,” he explained. “Nothing to do so’s you’d notice it. We left the canoe and the pack down at the lake and dashed up here for a fish or so.” By this he had the stranger’s rod in hand, a Leonard rod, the boy knew at a glance, about four ounces in weight, the last word in expense and perfection of rods. “Gosh, he blew himself!” was the inward comment Jack made. Josef was somehow present at the psychological distance from the butt as the boy held it in his hand, and while he set the reel more firmly into the plate and pushed the nickel ring down strongly Josef’s delicate, coarse finger-tips were untwisting the three bright flies from an extraordinarily thorough tangle. Adelard Martel watched sulkily out of the Indian tea-bushes; the large m’sieur watched, wondering. With that the lines were free, and Jack swung the butt about into Josef’s ready hand, and suddenly had the junction of leader and fish-line in his mouth and was chewing at it with energy.
“Tied wrong,” he commented thickly, and then had it out and drew the softened strings from their knot. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll show you how to put a leader into a snell.” He held the loop of transparent cord in his left hand and poised the green line above it. “Like this—down you go inside—up you go outside—across you go—then down outside, up—and pull her tight. There you are!” He slid the cross-loop down, and with a jerk it was all undone. “Just as easy to take out as to put in, you see. Want to do it yourself, sir?” And the man, as enchanted as a small boy, fumbled a bit and learned the knot. “Now we’re off,” Jack announced, glancing backward to assure his recover, and sent a skilful line into Profanity Pool.
Perhaps no harder place to fish was in the club. The pool, a black hole in the river, was thirty odd feet long and varied in width from twenty to five feet, irregularly. At the right a large log stretched over the water lengthwise, and under its shadow lurked the big trout. Also under it were snags where, once hooked, the fish ran to hide, and catch the line about the wood, and tear loose. One must keep a fish away from this log at all hazards. Yet across from it were sharp rocks apt to cut fish-line.
“The hole is chock-full of Scyllas and Charybdises, all right,” Jack remarked, pointing out the geography to his pupil. “I reckon Profanity Pool isn’t a misnomer. Lots of cuss-words spilled into this water, they do say.”
He cast, varying his line, varying his direction, with easy skill, over the dark, wild water, all the time telling how and why.
“With the forearm, you know, sir. Don’t put your shoulder into it. And stop a second on your recover, when the line’s back of you. Don’t monkey with it too fast—give it time to straighten out; and don’t slap the water with the flies. That scares ’em. Let the tail-fly touch first, and just as it’s touching lift the tip of the rod a scrap—see!” He illustrated with finished delicacy. “Then it goes down softly. Hi!”
A liquid swash, a break of white foam, an upward snap of the wrist—a trout was on.