For a long time the whipping of the water produced no result, and it
seemed as if the dainty style of angling were destined to prove less
profitable than plain fishing with a worm. But presently we came to
an elbow of the brook, just above the estuary, where there was quite
a stretch of clear water along the lower side, with two half-sunken
logs sticking out from the bank, against which the current had
drifted a broad raft of weeds. I made a long cast, and sent the
tail-fly close to the edge of the weeds. There was a swelling
ripple on the surface of the water, and a noble fish darted from
under the logs, dashed at the fly, missed it, and whirled back to
his shelter.
"Gee!" said the boy, "that was a whacker! He made a wake like a
steamboat."
It was a moment for serious thought. What was best to be done with
that fish? Leave him to settle down for the night and come back
after him another day? Or try another cast for him at once? A fish
on Saturday evening is worth two on Monday morning. I changed the
Queen of the Water for a Royal Coachman tied on a number fourteen
hook,--white wings, peacock body with a belt of crimson silk,--and
sent it out again, a foot farther up the stream and a shade closer
to the weeds. As it settled on the water, there was a flash of gold
from the shadow beneath the logs, and a quick turn of the wrist made
the tiny hook fast in the fish.
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