“See belly,—much dead. Yah,” said the Indian; and the gaff was in, and, amidst laughter and wild splashing, which covered her with water, a fine salmon was in the boat.
“Admirably done, miss!” said Carington. “That was well handled.” Then he added, “Them fresh-run fish is tough uns.”
Rose began, even amid her tire and excitement, to be a little puzzled. However, they went back to the same drop, and the casting went on as before. A half-hour passed. It was now long after six o’clock.
“See him rise, ma’am?” said Polycarp. “Best fish—heap late, heap best fish.”
She cast again, and this time saw the swirl in the water and a glance of white.
“Much hungry!”
After a little while the fly was changed, and then again, until at last the first fly was tried anew.
“No good! He no come!”
“Hold on a moment,” said Carington. “Try this”; and he took from his head his soft felt hat and threw it over to Polycarp. “There’s a fly in the band: try that. It is a white miller.”
“No good!” said Polycarp; but he put it on. The next moment Rose saw a fish dart sideways through the water, and with open mouth take the fly. Then the anchor was up, and the fish away for a wild run down-stream, the reel whizzing, pausing, and whizzing again. For a half-hour of running and reeling this went on. At length the fish hung out steadily in the strong water, his head to the current, while Rose with all her power held him.