She threw the fly to the opposite side of the pool, let it
sink an inch or two, and then quietly jerked it across until it came in
the way of the slow-circling salmon. To her it was merely an amusement,
but to Lionel it was a breathless excitement, to watch one after another
of those big fish, in passing, come up to look at this beautiful,
gleaming, shrimp-like object and then sink down again and go on its
round. They would not come within two feet of this tempting lure. She
tried them in all parts of the pool, sinking the fly well into the
plunging fall, and letting it be carried right to the other side before
she dragged it across the clear open.
"Won't one of you take it?" she said. "It's as pretty a fly as ever was
dressed, though they do call it the Dirty Yellow."
But all of a sudden the circumstances were changed in a most startling
manner. A swift, half-seen creature came darting up from out of the
plunging torrent, shot into the clear water, snatched at the small
object that was floating there, and down went fly and rod until the top
was almost touching the surface. The reel had caught in her dress,
somehow. But in another second all that was altered--she had got the
reel free--she was up on her feet--the line was singing out--the rod
raised, with the pliant top yielding to every movement of the fish--and
Lionel, quite bewildered by the rapidity of the whole occurrence,
wondering what he could do to assist her.
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