It was much too bright and pleasant a morning for good fishing, but
there was a fair ripple on the pools of the stream, where ever and
anon a salmon fresh run from the sea would leap into the air, showing
a gleaming curve of silver to the sunlight. The splash of the big
fish seemed an invitation, and Duncan was all anxiety to teach the
stranger, who, as he fancied, knew nothing about throwing a fly.
Ingram lay down on a rock some little distance back from the banks,
and put his hands beneath his head and watched the operations going
forward. But was it really Duncan who was to teach the stranger? It
was Sheila who picked out flies for him. It was Sheila who held the
rod while he put them on the line. It was Sheila who told him where
the bigger salmon usually lay--under the opposite bank of the broad
and almost lake-like pool into which the small but rapid White Water
came tumbling and foaming down its narrow channel of rocks and stones.
Then Sheila waited to see her pupil begin. He had evidently a little
difficulty about the big double-handed rod, a somewhat more formidable
engine of destruction than the supple little thing with which he had
whipped the streams of Devonshire and Cornwall.
The first cast sent both flies and a lump of line tumbling on to the
pool, and would have driven the boldest of salmon out of its wits.
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