“Ready, Mademoiselle?” He was heading for a deep pool near a line of rushes. The maid, laying down her paddle, reached back for the line, and put on the bait with her own fingers. 57
Menard held the canoe steady against the current, which was there but a slow movement, while she lowered the hook over the bow. They sat without a word for some minutes. Once he spoke, in a bantering voice, and she motioned to him to be quiet. Her brows were drawn down close together.
It was but a short time before she felt a jerk at the line. Her arms straightened out, and she pressed her lips tightly together. “Quick!” she said. “Go ahead!”
“Can you hold it?” he asked, as he dipped his paddle.
She nodded. “I wish the line were longer. It will be hard to give him any room.” She wound the cord around her wrist. “Will the line hold, M’sieu?”
“I think so. See if you can pull in.”
She leaned back, and pulled steadily, then shook her head. “Not very much. Perhaps, if you can get into the shallow water––”
Menard slowly worked the canoe through an opening in the rushes. There was a thrashing about and plunging not two rods away. Once the fish leaped clear of the water in a curve of clashing silver.
“It’s a salmon,” he said. “A small one.” 58
The maid held hard, but the colour had gone from her face. The canoe drew nearer to the shore.