“Hadn’t we best anchor?” said Carington. “I say, Polycarp, how is it? I don’t know this upper water.”
Rose took a look at the back of this curly head. The voice had not the intonations of Gaspé, but rang out clear over the noise of the rapids. Also the “a’s” were broad, and there was a decided south-land note in it, with which Rose was too unfamiliar to cause suspicion. Polycarp silently turned the canoe, and in a moment beached it. Rose stood; the chair was shifted, and now in a few moments they were at the top of the pool, a swift flow of dark water all around them.
“Anchor—drop,” said Polycarp, as they swung to the current. “Keepee hold short.”
The stream was a hundred yards wide. The hills rose high to right, and already a favoring shadow was on the pool. Rose had lost much time by reason of this trouble about the bowman. It was well on toward evening. A fish leaped below and then another. It was of a truth most beautiful, and the man in the bow, who was now behind Rose, was longing to say as much, but Rose was intent on other matters. A moderate-sized Jock Scott was adjusted, and she began to cast,—still awkwardly enough.
“I must stand,” said Rose. Then she cast better, but still in vain. An hour went by. Two people were beginning to consider it a little dull. At last once more Polycarp said, “Drop!” Rose laid her rod on the thwarts, as they slid down some thirty feet, the fly and leader hanging in the water, and the butt behind her. Of a sudden there was a mad splash, the reel ran out, and the bowman, catching the butt, raised the rod, and, leaning over her, put it in her hands. “Take care!” he said, “he’s off,” and away he went across the water.
“How splendid!” cried Rose, as she lowered the tip, when the fish made a mighty leap, eighty feet away, and his silvery arched form fell amidst foam onto the dark waves.
“Look out! More jump!” cried the Indian; and again the reel clicked busily.
“Reel! Reel!” said the bowman. “Well done, miss! Reel! Logs coming, Polycarp!” It was true. A half-dozen dark logs were coming down on them.
“Darn logs!” said the Indian, much excited. “You hold hard now. Tip up!”
“Yes. Tip up! tip up!” cried Carington. “There, can you hold him? If you can’t, he will get the line among the logs.” They were now out of the current in a side eddy. “So—so! Hold there, Polycarp! If he waits a half-minute before he runs, we shall have him. Good! He’s coming! Now lift him, miss! Well done! Reel! Reel! These running fish don’t last.”