“Big one nothing,” said Fred shortly. “It’s a little fellow.”
“Bring him in anyway,” cried George. “The little ones are just as good to eat as any kind.”
The trout may have been small as Fred had predicted, but he put up a valiant fight. After a very pretty struggle, however, he was gradually brought in close to the bank, and with a quick, dexterous scoop of his landing net Fred brought him to shore.
“About ten inches,” he remarked as he held the gamey little fish up for his friends to see. “He was fierce, though; look there,” and he showed the side of the trout’s mouth all torn and bloody, so hard had he attacked the hook.
“Let’s go after some ourselves, String,” exclaimed George eagerly. “I’d rather catch them myself than to watch others.”
“Remember you’re going to get a big one,” reminded Fred.
“Wait and see,” said George gruffly.
Without wasting any more time he and John made their way downstream while Fred and Grant worked slowly in the opposite direction. Fred was the only one of the four who was at all skillful in handling a trout-rod, and, as a consequence, he had the best luck at the start. Grant, however, had captured one prize, and to his delight it proved to be larger than any Fred had caught.
They had progressed slowly towards the rapids, stopping at every pool for a few casts, but both boys seemed to have the idea that their luck would be better farther up. Consequently they did not linger long in any one spot until they reached a point just below the rapids. Here there were several large pools, and each boy selected one and prepared to make a cast.
Grant had experienced considerable difficulty in making his casts, for the branches of the nearby trees and bushes seemed far easier to locate than the spot for which he aimed. Time and again he had found his hook entangled by the overhanging limb of some tree and he had spent many moments in freeing it as a result. It was particularly exasperating to him as he saw Fred with apparent ease drop his fly on any spot he cared to hit.