"That's the second fish for Parsons," whispered Beekman, "what a
secretive old Fortunatus he is! He knows more about fishing than
any man on the pool, and talks less."
Cornelia did not answer. Her thoughts were all on the tip of her
own rod. About eleven o'clock a fine, drizzling rain set in. The
fishing was very slack. All the other boats gave it up in despair;
but Cornelia said she wanted to stay out a little longer, they might
as well finish up the week.
At precisely fifty minutes past eleven, Beekman reeled up his line,
and remarked with firmness that the holy Sabbath day was almost at
hand and they ought to go in.
"Not till I 've landed this trout," said Cornelia.
"What? A trout! Have you got one?"
"Certainly; I 've had him on for at least fifteen minutes. I 'm
playing him Mr. Parsons' way. You might as well light the lantern
and get the net ready; he's coming in towards the boat now."
Beekman broke three matches before he made the lantern burn; and
when he held it up over the gunwale, there was the trout sure
enough, gleaming ghostly pale in the dark water, close to the boat,
and quite tired out. He slipped the net over the fish and drew it
in,--a monster.
"I 'll carry that trout, if you please," said Cornelia, as they
stepped out of the boat; and she walked into the camp, on the last
stroke of midnight, with the fish in her hand, and quietly asked for
the steelyard.
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