of the grasshoppers on the hook. Looking for a likely spot, he found it a few yards further down the stream where the uprooted trunk of a big tree lay across the brook and made a sort of dam. The bushes grew close to the bank and it was necessary to make a short cast. The first attempt wasn’t a success, and he had to wade into the pool and disentangle his leader from a stump. Then he crawled out and tried again, assuring himself that he had already scared every denizen of the pool into conniption fits and that, of course, he wouldn’t get a bite. But the grasshopper had no sooner lit on the surface than there was a sudden flash and the line spun out.
“Huh!” gasped Chub, his thumb on the reel. “That pleased you, didn’t it? Come on, now.”
But Mister Trout didn’t want to come on. Instead, he had hidden himself amongst the submerged roots of the trees. Chub wound in a foot or two of line very gingerly, trying to coax the trout into deep water, and the ruse succeeded. With a rush the fish darted from concealment and sped upstream. But Chub brought him up with a turn that made the line sing. Then he began to reel in. The trout fought valiantly and
