“Don’t lose him,” begged Grant. “Look at him go.”
The light rod was almost in the shape of a horseshoe and it scarcely seemed possible that it could stand the strain. Back and forth and around and across the pool the trout carried the hook. Fred strove to keep a constant pressure on the line in order to tire the fish out; he did not try to check his frequent bold rushes, however, but rather to prevent the line from becoming slack at any time.
One moment he would reel the line in swiftly and there would be almost no resistance at all; the next moment, however, just as he and Grant had come to the conclusion that the struggle was practically ended, off would go the line again while the reel sang loudly.
Fred was white-lipped, he was so excited. But who wouldn’t be, for there is no more thrilling sport in the world than to fight a big trout with a five-ounce rod?
“I believe he’s tiring,” exclaimed Fred at length.
“A little, perhaps,” agreed Fred.
“I wish he’d jump so we could see him.”
“If he does I’ll lose him. That’s one of the things I’m doing my best to prevent.”
“Why so?” demanded Grant in surprise.
“If a fish can jump clear of the water he can very often shake the hook out of his mouth. I’ve seen it happen too often.”