“Got you,” she hissed.
And so she had, but for how long? The line, she knew, was strong enough. But the rod and reel? They were mere playthings. Bought for perch and rock bass, not for thirty-pound salmon. Would they do their part? She was to see.
Dropping her paddle, she settled low in her uncertain craft. A sudden rush of the fish might at any moment send her plunging into the lake. Not that she minded a ducking. She was a powerful swimmer. But could one land a salmon that way? She doubted this. And she did want that fish. What a grand feast! She’d get a picture, too. Send it to her friends—who believed her lost in a hopeless wilderness.
“Yes, I—I’ve got to get you.” She began rolling in. The reel was pitifully small. She had not done a dozen turns when the tiny handle slipped from her grasp.
Zing! sang the reel. Only by dropping the rod between her knees and pressing hard could she halt the salmon’s mad flight.
“Ah,” she breathed, “I got you.”
This time, throwing all the strength of her capable hands into the task, she reeled in until, with a sudden rush the fish broke water.
“Oh! Oh!” she stared. “What a beauty! But look! You’re up, head, tail and all. How’re you hooked, anyway?”
Before she could discover the answer he was down and away. Once again the reel sang. Once more its handle bored a hole in her right knee.
“Dum!” she exclaimed as her boat began to move. “He’s heading for the weeds. He—he’ll snag himself off.”