“Let out a little line,” said Carington.
“But I can’t cast that far. Won’t you, please?”
“Certainly.” And, standing, he threw off two or three feet of line. The leader and fly dropped far away, straight from the rod. At last, after many casts, he put on a fly well known to anglers as a “fairy.” The fish rose, missed it, and then, following the retreating line, struck savagely.
“Up anchor!” cried Carington, as he sat down, giving the rod to Rose.
“Big one that, sir,” said Michelle; and, as he spoke, the salmon darted down-stream, the men in wild excitement, and the canoe swiftly urged in his track.
“The salmon seem fond of going to sea, Michelle. It is very rare, Miss Lyndsay.”
“Oh, he will have all my line! What can I do?”
“Tip up! up! He must run, and he will.” And away they flew.
“Quick, Michelle! I have twice seen a salmon run off a reel.” And now, in fact, there was very little line left, when, after nearly half a mile of rush downstream, the fish turned and ran toward the boat.
“Lost? No! Nothing is ever lost—reel! reel!—except by people who ought to lose. No, reel! reel!” And poor Rose, at the limit of exhaustion, obeyed till her arm ached, and the perilously long loop of line at last became tense, and the fish showed himself in one great leap not forty feet away.