Tom Orkney shook his head. “I know, I know! You hear such yarns, but, somehow, the proof isn’t conclusive. And if you’re talking about the genuine native trout, and not about some of the imported varieties that have been used to stock the streams——”
There he was interrupted by two or three, speaking at once. “I tell you those big fellows are pond fish!” “The native’s the best of the lot, but he won’t grow so big!” “It’s all a question of food supply—my father says so!”
Tom chose to accept none of the challenges. Instead, he turned to Lon.
“Look here! You’ve fished all the streams around here. What do you say about it?”
“I ain’t sayin’, son. I ain’t quite sure what’s the question before the house.”
“It’s how big will a brook trout grow—in a brook?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you must have some idea,” Tom urged. “What’s the biggest you ever saw?”
“It was so big I’d hate to say jest how big it was.”
“I don’t understand.”