In a few moments he was whipping the pool with long, graceful drops of the fly. He proved to be adept. Thorpe and Injin Charley stopped work to watch him. At first the Indian's stolid countenance seemed a trifle doubtful. After a time it cleared.
“Good! he grunted.
“You do that well,” Thorpe remarked. “Is it difficult?”
“It takes practice,” replied the boy. “See that riffle?” He whipped the fly lightly within six inches of a little suction hole; a fish at once rose and struck.
The others had been little fellows and easily handled. At the end of fifteen minutes the newcomer landed a fine two-pounder.
“That must be fun,” commented Thorpe. “I never happened to get in with fly-fishing. I'd like to try it sometime.”
“Try it now!” urged the boy, enchanted that he could teach a woodsman anything.
“No,” Thorpe declined, “not to-night, to-morrow perhaps.”
The other Indian had by now finished the erection of a tent, and had begun to cook supper over a little sheet-iron camp stove. Thorpe and Charley could smell ham.
“You've got quite a pantry,” remarked Thorpe.