It was during the holiday week that Eddie proposed the matter. That is
Eddie's way. No date, for him, is too far ahead to begin to plan
anything that has vari-colored flies in it, and tents, and the prospect
of the campfire smell. The very mention of these things will make his
hair bristle up (rather straight, still hair it is and silvered over
with premature wisdom) and put a new glare into his spectacles (rather
wide, round spectacles they are) until he looks even more like an
anarchist than usual--more indeed than in the old Heidelberg days, when,
as a matter of truth, he is a gentle soul; sometimes, when he has
transgressed, or thinks he has, almost humble.
As I was saying, it was during the holidays--about the end of the week,
as I remember it--and I was writing some letters at the club in the
little raised corner that looks out on the park, when I happened to
glance down toward the fireplace, and saw Eddie sitting as nearly on his
coat collar as possible, in one of the wide chairs, and as nearly in the
open hickory fire as he could get, pawing over a book of Silver
Doctors, Brown Hackles and the like, and dreaming a long, long dream.
Now, I confess there is something about a book of trout flies, even at
the year's end, when all the brooks are flint and gorged with white,
when all the north country hides under seamless raiment that stretches
even to the Pole itself--even at such a time, I say, there is something
about those bits of gimp, and gut, and feathers, and steel, that prick
up the red blood of any man--or of any woman, for that matter--who has
ever flung one of those gaudy things into a swirl of dark water, and
felt the swift, savage tug on the line and heard the music of the
singing reel.