ou lose this fish you're a duffer, sure enough; also a chump
and several other undesirable things. Don't hurry him--don't give him
unnecessary line in this close place where there may be snags--don't,
above all things, let him get any slack on you. Just a little line,
now--a few inches will do--and keep the tip of your rod up. If you point
it at him and he gets a straight pull he will jump off, sure, or he will
rush and you cannot gather the slack. Work him toward you, now, toward
your feet, close in--your net has a short handle, and is suspended
around your neck by a rubber cord. The cord will stretch, of course, but
you can never reach him over there. Don't mind the reel--you have taken
up enough line. You can't lift out a fish like that on a four-ounce
rod--on any rod short of a hickory sapling. Work him toward you, you
gump! Bring your rod up straighter--straighter--straight! Now for the
net--carefully--oh, you clumsy duffer, to miss him! Don't you know that
you can't thrash him into the net like that?--that you must dip the net
_under_ him? I suppose you thought you were catching mice. You deserve
to lose him altogether. Once more, now, he's right at your feet--a
king!"

Two long backward steps after that dip, for I must be certain that he
was away from the water's edge. Then I bumped into something--something
soft that laughed. It was Eddie, and he had two fish in his landing
net.

"Bully!" he said. "You did it first-rate, only you don't need to try to
beat him to death with the landing net. Better than mine," he added, as
I took my trout off the fly. "Suppose now we go below. I've taken a look
and there's a great pool, right where the brook comes out. We can get to
it in the canoe. I'll handle the canoe while you fish."

That, also, is Eddie's way. He had scolded me and he would make amends.
He had already taken down his rod, and we made our way back through the
brush without much difficulty, though I was still hot with effort and
excitement, and I fear a little careless about the poison ivy. A few
minutes later, Eddie, who handles a canoe--as he does everything else
pertaining to the woods--with grace and skill, had worked our craft
among the rocks into the wide, swift water that came out from under a
huge fallen log--the mouth of Pescawah Brook.

"Cast there," he said, pointing to a spot just below the log.

Within twenty minutes from that time I had learned more about
fishing--real trout fishing--than I h