In a few minutes Tom and Jo were going across the level meadow with the slender poles they had cut and the lines and hooks ready. As for Jeems, he proceeded to make himself comfortable, taking his blankets and spreading them out under the shade of a tree, stretching himself out upon them with his hands clasped under his head, and gazing at the distant clouds, drifting dreamily over the depths of blue, while there came through the sun-warmed air the continual murmur of insects.
Near Jeems’ side his faithful shepherd dog was curled up in lazy contentment, with his eyes peacefully closed, opening with an occasional blink, then closing again. It was a happy interval for Jeems, and he thoroughly enjoyed the quietness of the scene, for he was a philosopher by nature as well as by name, and he liked to have time for his own mind. “You can’t hatch thoughts unless you sit on ’em a while,” was one of his quaint phrases.
Meanwhile, Tom and Jo were walking across the sunny meadows with their minds filled with great expectations of the trout they were about to catch. It was a sort of a holiday for them, and they did not envy Jim and Juarez in the least, and were actually sorry for Jeems, since they were born fishermen. When they reached the stream they separated, Jo going up where there were some willow bushes overhanging the water, and Tom going down where he hoped to find some quiet pools.
The whole valley was a scene of utmost peace, and no one would dream that there was war gathering, as it were, in the near future, but there undoubtedly was. The only bit of tactics that Jo had in his mind at present was how to get the big trout who lurked in the shadow of the limpid pool. He cast carefully and watched the float on his line with intense interest. Five minutes passed, then came the heart-throbbing second when the float went under and there was a strong, tense pull on the line. Steadily Jo pulled until there shone in the air a gleaming trout.
It was a beauty with olive-green back, shading down the sides to white with spots of black and red. It was thirteen inches in length, and Jo promised himself quite a triumph over Tom when he should show him this prize. By noon Jo had caught ten fish varying from seven inches to a foot in length. He and Tom met down stream several miles, at noon.
“What luck?” inquired Tom.
“Better than yours,” declared Jo proudly. “I’ve got the biggest fish.”
“You have not,” said Tom, and to prove it he pulled out of his bag a good big trout.
“There!”