“It has all the charm of gambling,” said Mr. Lyndsay, “without the badness.”
“Will he rise again?”
“Perhaps. Ah, not this time”; and after a couple of casts, he said, “Put on a black dose.”
“A what?”
“Our flies have all manner of queer names. This is a ‘dark fly,’ quite unlike the bright doctor. It may tempt him.” And at the first cast, with the same length of line, the peaceful scene was turned into one of intense excitement.
“There!” cried Rose. “Oh!” for as the new fly reached the fated spot, there was a sudden flash of white a dozen yards away. The reel ran out a few feet, the rod was lifted and turned over to bring the winch to the right hand, and the pressure on the entire length of the bending rod. The angler sat down.
Tom meanwhile had called to the bowman as the fish struck, and the anchor was instantly drawn up. For this brief interval of time the great salmon stayed, pausing. “Thinking what’s wrong,” said Lyndsay. The next instant the reel sang, and some two hundred feet of line ran out with incredible swiftness. Far away across the stream a great white thing leaped high out of the water, as Lyndsay dropped the tip of his rod to relax the tension of the line.
“How exciting it is!” cried Rose, as the fish leaped again. “I don’t sympathize with the salmon at all; I am intent on murdering him.”
“Fresh run and clean,” said Tom,—“a beauty!”
The canoe, urged by deft paddles, moved across the river. The tension relaxing, Lindsay reeled up line. Then again there was a wild rush up river.