by Morgan Scott
CHAPTER VI.
A MORNING’S SPORT.
Instantly both boys were athrob with excitement, although Springer,handling the rod and “playing” the fish, was somewhat less agitated thanGrant, who immediately dropped his own tackle and seized the landingnet, ready to render such assistance as he might.
“He sure must be a dandy, Phil,” palpitated the Texan, his cheeksflushed and his eyes glowing. “Great Scott! see the rod bend. He hasn’tjumped yet. Don’t they jump?”
“If it’s a sus-sus-salmon,” stuttered Phil, swiftly winding in as thefish ceased its spurt and yielded a little, “it will jump; and maybe itwill if it’s a bub-bass. It may not break water at all if it’s atut-trout.”
Heedless of wet feet, Phil waded out until the water had reached to theknees of his canvas trousers, and there he stood, displaying no smallamount of skill at the delightful task of baffling and tiring thefighting fish. Whenever the finny victim grew weary and permitted theline to slacken the angler reeled in, keeping it fairly taut, all thewhile prepared to let the reel run when it was necessary. In thismanner, following the fish’s repeated breaks for liberty, the boygradually brought it closer, admonishing his companion, who had likewisewaded out and was waiting near at hand, to be ready to dip with the netwhen told to do so.
It was indeed exciting work, which kept them keyed to the highesttension. Both knew what it was to experience the fierce thrills of asavage football clash and the triumphant elation of brilliant andsuccessful work upon the baseball field, but in the sport of thismidsummer morning hour there was something different, yet quite asintensely enjoyable and blood-stirring. The reason, perhaps, lay in thefact that both possessed the natural instincts of the sportsman whofinds the highest pleasure in a fair and honorable battle where victoryand defeat hang in the balance until the last moment. For until the netshould lift the fish from its native element they could not know howsecurely or how lightly it was hooked, and it was possible that, througha sudden swirling struggle of the creature itself or an inopportunetautening of the line just when it turned desperately to run away, itmight tear itself free and escape.
Three times Grant made ready to dip, and once he sunk the net deep inthe water; and three times the weakening fish darted off, setting thereel whirring. On the last occasion both lads obtained a good view ofthe finny fellow, magnified by the water, and therefore looking largeindeed.
“He certain is a corker, Phil,” breathed Grant. “Bring him up again.I’ll get him next time.”
“Sink the net as I reel him toward you,” instructed Springer, “and beready to make a quick scoop under him. Here he comes now.”
Moving a bit heavily and slowly in protest against the treatment it wasreceiving, the fish was reeled in toward Grant, who obeyed directionsfaithfully, accomplishing the final _coup_ by a swift forward and upwardmovement of the sunken net.
“Ah-ha!” exulted Springer. “That’s the sus-stuff! You did it fine, Rod.”
They waded ashore, and Phil, thrusting a thumb and finger into thefish’s gills, lifted the shining, spotted trout, flapping helplessly,from amid the meshes.
“Look!” he cried proudly. “Just had him caught by the corner of the lip.A pull an ounce too hard would have lost him.”
“Say,” said the Texan approvingly, “I opine you handled that baby rightskilful. Jingoes! but he’s a beaut. Must weight better than two pounds.”
“Two and a-half, I should say,” nodded Phil, regarding his catch with aself-satisfied air. “He’ll go well for bub-breakfast.”
Rodney smacked his lips. “I should guess yes. Two or three more likethat will make a mess for a hungry bunch.”
The creature was placed in the basket they had brought for that purpose,and Grant, eager to emulate his friend’s example, soon recovered hisabandoned rod and resumed casting. Springer likewise lost little time inonce more applying himself to the task of whipping the pool at the mouthof the brook.
By this time the sun was up, and in the near-by dewy thickets they couldoccasionally hear the flutter of a wing or the rustle of a runningsquirrel. The morning was breathless, and the surface of the lakereflected the sunlight like a polished mirror; but under the bushesalong the shore were shadows in which trout might lie, and theartificial flies at the ends of the silken lines went dropping intothose shadows and skimming across them, propelled by gentle movements ofthe rods that gave the luring baits the lifelike appearance of swimminginsects.
At intervals Grant caught his hook in the bushes or tangled his line,but he could see that he was really making some progress in the art ofcasting, and he held his patience, despite these annoying interruptions.
And it was Rodney who got the second strike. He saw the swirl of thedarting fish and gave the rod a sharp jerk, after the manner ofSpringer, instantly shot through by a thrill as he felt the linetighten, saw the bamboo bend and heard his reel humming.
“You’ve got him!” cried Phil. “Now pup-play him—play him carefully.Don’t let him have the slack when he stops. Be ready to reel in.”
In the excitement of the shifting of the rod from one hand to the otherand getting ready to work the reel Grant gave the fish some slack, butwas relieved, when he wound in, to find the creature had not brokenaway.
“Not too hard,” admonished Springer. “Don’t hold him tut-too hard whenhe tries to run.”
“I must have hooked him in good shape, or he’d sure freed himself rightaway,” said the Texan. “Look at my rod bend. He must be a whopper.”
The tugs and thrills of the vibrating rod seemed to permeate his entirebody, causing his heart to leap and skip and his breath to come quicklythrough his nostrils. It was characteristic of the boy from Texas thatin moments of stress he always kept his teeth set and his lips pressedtogether.
But Rod did not possess the angling skill of Springer, and presently,with a sudden tremendous swirl and splash, the fish caught himunprepared and jerked the rod downward till the tip almost touched thewater. A moment later the strain upon the line relaxed, the end of therod sprung back, and Phil uttered an exclamation of dismay.
“You’ve lul-lost him!”
“I opine that’s right,” confessed Grant, reeling in slowly, a comicalexpression of dejection upon his face. “The way he pulled he must havebeen a monster. It’s too bad, and I’m certain a rotten fisherman.”
“It’s always the bub-biggest ones that get away, you know,” laughed Philcheerfully. “Chirk up, Rod; nobody gets them all. There ought to be morein here.”
But, although they continued to whip the mouth of the brook for sometime, not another rise could they get.
“One isn’t enough for breakfast,” said Grant. “We ought to have more.”
“Let’s work up the brook,” suggested Phil. “You take one side, and I’llfollow the other. Just watch me and cuc-creep along quietly, the way Ido. Don’t let your shadow fall on the water, and try to drop your flyinto the pools without showing yourself to the fish that may lie there.”
He forded the brook a short distance above its mouth, and they beganfollowing it upward along a sort of ravine that cut through the woods.
In a few moments, dropping the flies into a quiet pool below theprojecting end of a water-soaked log, both got a strike at the sametime, and each one hooked his fish. Then there was sport and excitementenough, it being no simple matter to keep their lines from becomingtangled in that small pool. Neither of the fish, however, was nearly aslarge as the one already caught, and, after dipping his own in agenuinely skilful way, Phil used the net to secure Grant’s. Both weretrout, weighing, probably, three-fourths of a pound each.
“There!” breathed Rod in deep satisfaction; “I’m an angler now, for Ireally caught something worth while with a fly-rod. Roping a steer is aheap more dangerous and strenuous, but the person who makes game of thissort of sport sure doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Continuing to follow the brook, they found
sport enough to satisfy anygenuine Nimrod, and ere long the basket contained a catch numbering atleast a full dozen.
“I suppose it’s time we were getting back to camp,” said Springer atlast. “The others must be up by this time, and hungry. They’ll wonderwhat has become of us.”
“I hate to quit,” admitted Rodney. “I could fish all day, I reckon.”
“You’re an angler all right,” laughed Phil. “You’ve gug-got thefuf-fever. But you mustn’t try to catch all the fish at once, you know.This brook won’t run away, and we’ll try it again.”
“Let’s look; let’s see how many we have,” urged Grant. “Open the basket,Phil.”
Springer had recrossed the brook, and he paused to comply with hiscompanion’s request. The basket opened, they gazed with admiring eyes atthe spotted beauties within, some of which were still breathing andmoving. They were thus engaged when a startling interruption caused themto spring up swiftly and turn their heads.
“Here, you fellers!” rasped a harsh voice. “What are you doing, fishingin this brook? It’s private property.”