A MORNING’S SPORT.
Instantly both boys were athrob with excitement, although Springer,
handling the rod and “playing” the fish, was somewhat less agitated than
Grant, who immediately dropped his own tackle and seized the landing
net, ready to render such assistance as he might.
“He sure must be a dandy, Phil,” palpitated the Texan, his cheeks
flushed and his eyes glowing. “Great Scott! see the rod bend. He hasn’t
jumped yet. Don’t they jump?”
“If it’s a sus-sus-salmon,” stuttered Phil, swiftly winding in as the
fish ceased its spurt and yielded a little, “it will jump; and maybe it
will if it’s a bub-bass. It may not break water at all if it’s a
tut-trout.”
Heedless of wet feet, Phil waded out until the water had reached to the
knees of his canvas trousers, and there he stood, displaying no small
amount of skill at the delightful task of baffling and tiring the
fighting fish. Whenever the finny victim grew weary and permitted the
line to slacken the angler reeled in, keeping it fairly taut, all the
while prepared to let the reel run when it was necessary. In this
manner, following the fish’s repeated breaks for liberty, the boy
gradually brought it closer, admonishing his companion, who had likewise
waded out and was waiting near at hand, to be ready to dip with the net
when told to do so.
It was indeed exciting work, which kept them keyed to the highest
tension. Both knew what it was to experience the fierce thrills of a
savage football clash and the triumphant elation of brilliant and
successful work upon the baseball field, but in the sport of this
midsummer morning hour there was something different, yet quite as
intensely enjoyable and blood-stirring. The reason, perhaps, lay in the
fact that both possessed the natural instincts of the sportsman who
finds the highest pleasure in a fair and honorable battle where victory
and defeat hang in the balance until the last moment. For until the net
should lift the fish from its native element they could not know how
securely or how lightly it was hooked, and it was possible that, through
a sudden swirling struggle of the creature itself or an inopportune
tautening of the line just when it turned desperately to run away, it
might tear itself free and escape.
Three times Grant made ready to dip, and once he sunk the net deep in
the water; and three times the weakening fish darted off, setting the
reel whirring. On the last occasion both lads obtained a good view of
the finny fellow, magnified by the water, and therefore looking large
indeed.
“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 be
ready to make a quick scoop under him. Here he comes now.”
Moving a bit heavily and slowly in protest against the treatment it was
receiving, the fish was reeled in toward Grant, who obeyed directions
faithfully, accomplishing the final _coup_ by a swift forward and upward
movement 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 the
fish’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 right
skilful. 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 a
self-satisfied air. “He’ll go well for bub-breakfast.”
Rodney smacked his lips. “I should guess yes. Two or three more like
that 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 his
abandoned rod and resumed casting. Springer likewise lost little time in
once more applying himself to the task of whipping the pool at the mouth
of the brook.
By this time the sun was up, and in the near-by dewy thickets they could
occasionally hear the flutter of a wing or the rustle of a running
squirrel. The morning was breathless, and the surface of the lake
reflected the sunlight like a polished mirror; but under the bushes
along the shore were shadows in which trout might lie, and the
artificial flies at the ends of the silken lines went dropping into
those shadows and skimming across them, propelled by gentle movements of
the rods that gave the luring baits the lifelike appearance of swimming
insects.
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 of
casting, and he held his patience, despite these annoying interruptions.
And it was Rodney who got the second strike. He saw the swirl of the
darting fish and gave the rod a sharp jerk, after the manner of
Springer, instantly shot through by a thrill as he felt the line
tighten, 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 other
and getting ready to work the reel Grant gave the fish some slack, but
was relieved, when he wound in, to find the creature had not broken
away.
“Not too hard,” admonished Springer. “Don’t hold him tut-too hard when
he tries to run.”
“I must have hooked him in good shape, or he’d sure freed himself right
away,” 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 entire
body, causing his heart to leap and skip and his breath to come quickly
through his nostrils. It was characteristic of the boy from Texas that
in moments of stress he always kept his teeth set and his lips pressed
together.
But Rod did not possess the angling skill of Springer, and presently,
with a sudden tremendous swirl and splash, the fish caught him
unprepared and jerked the rod downward till the tip almost touched the
water. A moment later the strain upon the line relaxed, the end of the
rod 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 comical
expression of dejection upon his face. “The way he pulled he must have
been 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 Phil
cheerfully. “Chirk up, Rod; nobody gets them all. There ought to be more
in here.”
But, although they continued to whip the mouth of the brook for some
time, 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’ll
follow the other. Just watch me and cuc-creep along quietly, the way I
do. Don’t let your shadow fall on the water, and try to drop your fly
into the pools without showing yourself to the fish that may lie there.”
He forded the brook a short distance above its mouth, and they began
following it upward along a sort of ravine that cut through the woods.
In a few moments, dropping the flies into a quiet pool below the
projecting end of a water-soaked log, both got a strike at the same
time, and each one hooked his fish. Then there was sport and excitement
enough, it being no simple matter to keep their lines from becoming
tangled in that small pool. Neither of the fish, however, was nearly as
large as the one already caught, and, after dipping his own in a
genuinely skilful way, Phil used the net to secure Grant’s. Both were
trout, weighing, probably, three-fourths of a pound each.
“There!” breathed Rod in deep satisfaction; “I’m an angler now, for I
really caught something worth while with a fly-rod. Roping a steer is a
heap more dangerous and strenuous, but the person who makes game of this
sort of sport sure doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Continuing to follow the brook, they found sport enough to satisfy any
genuine Nimrod, and ere long the basket contained a catch numbering at
least a full dozen.
“I suppose it’s time we were getting back to camp,” said Springer at
last. “The others must be up by this time, and hungry. They’ll wonder
what 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 the
fuf-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 his
companion’s request. The basket opened, they gazed with admiring eyes at
the spotted beauties within, some of which were still breathing and
moving. They were thus engaged when a startling interruption caused them
to spring up swiftly and turn their heads.
“Here, you fellers!” rasped a harsh voice. “What are you doing, fishing
in this brook? It’s private property.”