When luncheon was over, the four young campers busied themselves with preparations for the afternoon’s fishing. They sat around on the bank joining the different sections of their trout rods and selecting the flies which they considered would be most tempting to the speckled fish they sought to catch.

“We’ll fish from the shore, I suppose,” remarked John.

“Of course,” exclaimed Fred. “The current is too strong here to try it from a canoe.”

“I’m not much good at this game, I’m afraid,” laughed John. “I don’t expect to catch a thing.”

“I don’t know anything about it, either,” said George, “but I certainly expect to catch something just the same.”

“Maybe you’ll have beginner’s luck,” said Grant.

“I don’t care what it is,” laughed George. “I want some fish, though.”

“Well, I’m ready,” said Fred, rising to his feet. “Where are we going?”

“Suppose two of us go upstream and two down,” suggested Grant.

“All right,” exclaimed Fred. “You and I will go up and the others the other way. We’ll meet back here in time for supper.”

“At the latest,” added John.

Fred stepped to the shore and deftly cast his fly out on the waters. Gradually lengthening the amount of line he had out, he kept casting and then drawing the rod back over his head so that the line stretched far behind him. Then, with a short snap of his wrist he would send the fly floating out over the pool again. As it came to rest lightly on the surface of the water he jerked it along for a few feet in imitation of the struggles of a live insect and then he would repeat the performance all over again.

His three friends watched him with absorbing interest.

“That’s a simple performance,” exclaimed George at length. “Why don’t you leave the fly in the water for a second or two and give the fish half a chance to swallow it? It would have to be an awfully quick trout to take your hook.”

“They’re quick enough; don’t worry about that,” smiled Fred.

“But why don’t you let the hook sink a little below the surface?”

“Did you ever see a moth or a bug of some sort light on the water?” Fred inquired.

“Yes. Lots of times.”

“Did you ever see one sink?”

“No, I don’t believe I ever did,” George admitted slowly.

“That’s just it,” exclaimed Fred triumphantly. “If a real insect doesn’t do it, why should an artificial one? The idea is to make the fly appear just as much alive as possible.”

“I haven’t seen you catch anything yet,” remarked George.

Hardly had he spoken, however, when Fred had a strike. His fly had settled like thistledown on the surface of the pool after an almost perfect cast, when there was a rush and the line was drawn swiftly across the pool. The light rod bent almost double and Fred’s three companions jumped to their feet excitedly.

“Yea, Fred!” shouted John. “You’ve hooked a big one. Stick to him.”

“Big one nothing,” said Fred shortly. “It’s a little fellow.”

“Bring him in anyway,” cried George. “The little ones are just as good to eat as any kind.”

The trout may have been small as Fred had predicted, but he put up a valiant fight. After a very pretty struggle, however, he was gradually brought in close to the bank, and with a quick, dexterous scoop of his landing net Fred brought him to shore.

“About ten inches,” he remarked as he held the gamey little fish up for his friends to see. “He was fierce, though; look there,” and he showed the side of the trout’s mouth all torn and bloody, so hard had he attacked the hook.

“Let’s go after some ourselves, String,” exclaimed George eagerly. “I’d rather catch them myself than to watch others.”

“Remember you’re going to get a big one,” reminded Fred.

“Wait and see,” said George gruffly.

Without wasting any more time he and John made their way downstream while Fred and Grant worked slowly in the opposite direction. Fred was the only one of the four who was at all skillful in handling a trout-rod, and, as a consequence, he had the best luck at the start. Grant, however, had captured one prize, and to his delight it proved to be larger than any Fred had caught.

They had progressed slowly towards the rapids, stopping at every pool for a few casts, but both boys seemed to have the idea that their luck would be better farther up. Consequently they did not linger long in any one spot until they reached a point just below the rapids. Here there were several large pools, and each boy selected one and prepared to make a cast.

Grant had experienced considerable difficulty in making his casts, for the branches of the nearby trees and bushes seemed far easier to locate than the spot for which he aimed. Time and again he had found his hook entangled by the overhanging limb of some tree and he had spent many moments in freeing it as a result. It was particularly exasperating to him as he saw Fred with apparent ease drop his fly on any spot he cared to hit.

Grant had just succeeded in disentangling his hook for at least the tenth time when he heard his name called.

“Come over here, Grant!” shouted Fred excitedly. “I need help.”

Grant immediately dropped his rod and started towards the spot where Fred was standing.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded, when he was only a few yards distant from his companion.

“Matter?” exclaimed Fred. “Look at that rod.”

It was bent almost double, and the line whipped back and forth across the pool as if it was possessed.

“Zowie!” cried Grant eagerly. “You’ve hooked a good one this time.”

“I should say I had.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take that landing net and stand ready to scoop him up in case I can bring him close enough to shore, and don’t lose him beforehand.”

“Don’t lose him,” begged Grant. “Look at him go.”

The light rod was almost in the shape of a horseshoe and it scarcely seemed possible that it could stand the strain. Back and forth and around and across the pool the trout carried the hook. Fred strove to keep a constant pressure on the line in order to tire the fish out; he did not try to check his frequent bold rushes, however, but rather to prevent the line from becoming slack at any time.

One moment he would reel the line in swiftly and there would be almost no resistance at all; the next moment, however, just as he and Grant had come to the conclusion that the struggle was practically ended, off would go the line again while the reel sang loudly.

Fred was white-lipped, he was so excited. But who wouldn’t be, for there is no more thrilling sport in the world than to fight a big trout with a five-ounce rod?

“I believe he’s tiring,” exclaimed Fred at length.

“A little, perhaps,” agreed Fred.

“I wish he’d jump so we could see him.”

“If he does I’ll lose him. That’s one of the things I’m doing my best to prevent.”

“Why so?” demanded Grant in surprise.

“If a fish can jump clear of the water he can very often shake the hook out of his mouth. I’ve seen it happen too often.”

“But I don’t see how you can prevent it.”

“If I keep a steady strain on him all the time, he can’t jump. It’s only when the line is slack that they have a chance to do that.”

“Look at him go!” exclaimed Grant. “Wouldn’t you think he’d be getting tired by this time?”

“He is. His rushes aren’t as long as they were before.”

“Does that mean you’ve got him?”

“Not at all. You’ve never caught a trout until he is safely on the shore.”

Fred had not once taken his eyes from the line while he was talking with Grant. Carefully, coolly and with great skill he played his fish. Never once did he relax his caution, and little by little he seemed to be gaining the mastery. Every rush was shorter than the one before, and after every one he reeled in a bit more of line and brought the trout a trifle nearer to the shore and the net.

“Get ready, Grant,” said Fred in a tense voice.

The handle of the net in his right hand, Grant knelt on the rocks on the edge of the pool. He was just to the left of the spot where his comrade was standing and he now watched the line just as closely as Fred.

“Let me know when to scoop him,” he said.

“You’ll know all right,” replied Fred. “You’ll see him in the water.”

“You tell me, though.”

“All right.”

The plucky trout was tiring rapidly now. His struggles became weaker and weaker. Fred had played him well, but he was too seasoned a fisherman to feel that the fight was ended. Bitter experience had taught him that there is many a slip.

“Get the net ready,” exclaimed Fred after what seemed like a very long time to Grant, who was not comfortable in the position he was in.

Nearer and nearer Fred brought the trout. He still struggled weakly but was practically exhausted now. Relentlessly Fred reeled in the line. Once the trout broke the water with his tail not a dozen feet from shore and Grant held his breath; he thought the fish had escaped.

Not so, however, for a moment later he could see him in the water being drawn remorselessly closer to the net. Grant was in a panic for fear he should not do his part correctly.

“Now, Grant!” cried Fred suddenly.

The trout was in the water almost at Grant’s feet. His struggles were very weak now and thanks to the way Fred handled the rod, was nearly motionless. Carefully Grant lowered the net into the water and moved it along until it was almost underneath the beaten fish; then with a quick motion he raised the net and a moment later the trout lay upon the bank enmeshed in its folds.

“Nice work, Grant!” exclaimed Fred. “You did that like a veteran!”

“Isn’t he a beauty!” cried Grant delightedly.

“He surely is.”

“How much do you suppose he weighs?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’d hate to say; two pounds and a half, I guess.”

“That’s pretty big, isn’t it?” inquired Grant.

“It is for this part of the country and it’s all I’d care to tackle with a five-ounce rod.”

Fred had removed the hook from the fish’s mouth now and he held him up to view.

“He’s all right,” said Grant admiringly.

“What do you suppose Pop will say about him?” grinned Fred. “I don’t believe he can match him, do you?”

“I don’t know,” said Grant doubtfully. “I’d hate to bet on it. You can’t ever be sure what he’ll do.”

“Huh,” laughed Fred derisively. “He couldn’t catch a trout like that to save his life.”

“Wait and see,” cautioned Grant.