wrapped it up mornings as a jewel, buried it deep
in the bottom of my bag, and I locked the bag. Not that Eddie did not
have one of his own--it may be that he had a variety of such things--and
as for the guides, I have a notion that they prefer wet clothes. But
though this was a wild country, where it was unlikely that we should
meet any living soul, there was always the possibility of a stray
prospector or a hunter, and a dry garment in a wet time is a temptation
which should not be put in any man's way. Neither that nor the liquor
supply. When we left our camp--as we did, often--our guns, our tackle,
even our purses and watches, were likely to be scattered about in plain
view; but we never failed to hide the whisky. Whisky is fair loot, and
the woodsman who would scorn to steal even a dry shirt would carry off
whisky and revel in his shame.

There were quantities of trout in the lower Shelburne, and in a pool
just below the camp, next morning, Eddie and I took a dozen or
more--enough for breakfast and to spare--in a very few minutes. They
were lively fish--rather light in color, but beautifully marked and
small enough to be sweet and tender, that is, not much over a half-pound
weight. In fact, by this time we were beginning to have a weakness for
the smaller fish. The pound-and-upward trout, the most plentiful size,
thus far, were likely to be rather dry and none too tender. When we
needed a food supply, the under-sized fish were more welcome, and when,
as happened only too rarely, we took one of the old-fashioned New
England speckled beauty dimensions--that is to say, a trout of from
seven to nine inches long and of a few ounces weight--it was welcomed
with real joy. Big fish are a satisfaction at the end of a line and in
the landing net, but when one really enters upon a trout diet--when at
last it becomes necessary to serve them in six or seven different ways
to make them go down--the demand for the smallest fish obtainable is
pretty certain to develop, while the big ones are promptly returned
with good wishes and God-speed to their native element.

For of course no true sportsman ever keeps any trout he cannot use. Only
the "fish-hog" does that. A trout caught on a fly is seldom injured, and
if returned immediately to the water will dart away, all the happier, it
may be, for his recent tug-of-war. He suffers little or no pain in the
tough cartilages about his mouth and gills (a fact I have demonstrated
by hookin