“What a whopper! Oh, say, Allie, isn’t he a beauty? I could hug—I—You bet I’m thankful. You were quick.... He certainly is slippery.”
Allie dropped to her knees and wiped her hands on the grass while Neale killed the fish and strung it upon a willow with the others he had caught. Then turning to Allie, he started to tell her how glad he was to see her again, to ask her if she were glad to see him. But upon looking at her he decided to try and keep her mind from herself. She was different now and he liked the difference. He feared he might frighten it away.
“Will you help me get more bait?” he asked.
Allie nodded and got up. Then Neale noticed her feet were bare. Poor child! She had no shoes and he did not know how to procure any suitable footwear in that wilderness.
“Have you ever fished for trout?” he asked, as he began to dig under a rotting log.
“Yes. In California,” she replied, with sudden shadowing of her eyes.
“Let’s go down the brook,” said Neale, hastily, fearful that he had been tactless. “There are some fine holes below.”
She walked beside him, careful of the sharp stones that showed here and there. Presently they came to a likely-looking pool.
“If you hook another big one don’t try to pull him right out,” admonished Allie.
Neale could scarcely conceal his delight, and in his effort to appear natural made a poor showing at this pool, losing two fish and scaring others so they would not rise.