Walter’s wrist was feeling the strain. Despite the excitement he was becoming tired. His heart was pounding with conflicting emotions, alternate hope of landing a record prize and fear of losing it. Another fit of sulking gave him a few minutes’ respite. When the next rush started he felt that it was weaker, nor was it as long. Inch by inch he was recovering his line, not for one instant relaxing the steady strain on the fish.
The rushes were short now and quickly checked. Inch by inch, foot by foot the reel took up the line. At last in the clear depths he got a glimpse of a shadowy form as it started another rush. Big Jim had seen too. Indeed, he had seen more than Walter had.
“Two o’ em, by gum!” he shouted. “Steady now, pard! ’Twon’t be safe t’ try t’ land ’em in th’ canoe without a landin’ net. I’m goin’ t’ work in t’ thet bit o’ shingle over yonder. Jes’ yer keep ’em comin’ an’ don’t let up on ’em fer a minute.”
The guide was right. Both flies had been seized at once. By this time Walter could occasionally see the two fish, and the sight brought his heart into his throat. Could he save both? What a chance to score for the Delawares! And what a record to send home to father! He understood now why there had been no leaping; the fish had checkmated each other.
As the canoe grated on the pebbles the guide leaped over, knee-deep in the water. Walter stood up and gently led the fish toward the waiting guide. So tired were they that they were almost passive, their broad tails feebly winnowing as, getting the line in his left hand, Big Jim drew them slowly to him. Gently he sank his right arm in the water that no sudden move should startle the fish into a last frantic struggle. Would he save them? Walter sat down weakly, trembling with the strain and anxiety.
Slowly the guide’s big hand slipped up the length of the fish on the dropper. The stout fingers locked in the gills, there was a deft throw—Walter could never tell just how it was done—and both fish were flapping on the shore. Jim threw himself upon them a second after, for his quick eye had seen that the tail fly had torn out. When he stood up he held out a fish in each hand, such fish! The young angler could hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes.
“Smallest’ll weigh ’bout two an’ a half pounds, an’ t’other ’bout a pound heftier,” said Jim, eyeing them critically. “Pard, thet’s goin’ some fer a beginner. Reckon yer must carry a rabbit’s foot in yer pocket fer luck.”
Walter disclaimed any witch charms whatsoever as he produced the neat little spring scales which had been a parting gift from his father. These proved the accuracy of Jim’s guess, one being an ounce less and the other an ounce and a half more than the weights he had named. They were the true broad tails or speckled trout, commonly called brook trout (Salvilinus fontinalis) than which no more beautiful fish swims.
As he admired their exquisitely painted sides something very like regret for a moment subdued the boy’s elation and pride, for he was one of the true nature lovers, to whom the destruction of life must ever bring a feeling of sadness.
As the guide shoved off Walter started to bend on a change of flies, but to this Big Jim quickly put a stop.