“But I don’t see how you can prevent it.”
“If I keep a steady strain on him all the time, he can’t jump. It’s only when the line is slack that they have a chance to do that.”
“Look at him go!” exclaimed Grant. “Wouldn’t you think he’d be getting tired by this time?”
“He is. His rushes aren’t as long as they were before.”
“Does that mean you’ve got him?”
“Not at all. You’ve never caught a trout until he is safely on the shore.”
Fred had not once taken his eyes from the line while he was talking with Grant. Carefully, coolly and with great skill he played his fish. Never once did he relax his caution, and little by little he seemed to be gaining the mastery. Every rush was shorter than the one before, and after every one he reeled in a bit more of line and brought the trout a trifle nearer to the shore and the net.
“Get ready, Grant,” said Fred in a tense voice.
The handle of the net in his right hand, Grant knelt on the rocks on the edge of the pool. He was just to the left of the spot where his comrade was standing and he now watched the line just as closely as Fred.
“Let me know when to scoop him,” he said.