He had grown to think that all these oily sweeps of brown water,
touched here and there by dark, olive-green reflections, were useful
only as showing where the fly dropped; there was no fish watching the
slow jerking of the "Bishop" across the current; the one salmon that
haunted the Rock Pool had put in an appearance and gone away long ago.
But suddenly there was a short, sharp scream of the reel; then silence.
"What is it, Robert?" she said--apparently holding on to something.
"Another sea-trout?"
"Oh, no, Miss Honnor, I am not thinking that--"
The words were hardly out of his mouth when it became abundantly clear
that the unknown creature in the deeps had not the least intention of
concealing his identity. A sudden rush down-stream, followed by a wild
splashing and thrashing on the surface, was only the first of a series
of performances that left Miss Honnor not one single moment of
breathing-space. Either she was following him rapidly down the river, or
following him up again, or reeling in swiftly as he came sailing towards
her, or again she could only stand in breathless suspense as he flung
himself into the air and then beat and churned the water, shaking the
line this way and that.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224