and strongly, but the young woman
stuck to her work and would not give him any rest. Jack watched her
carefully. He saw that she was tiring, but he did not offer any help,
for he knew that she was a sportsman. She would want to win alone or not
at all.

Yet he moved closer. The water was up to her hips, and no river in the
Rockies has a swifter current than the Gunnison. The bottom too is
covered with smooth slippery stones and bowlders, so that a misstep
might send her plunging down. Deprived of the use of her landing pole,
she could make less resistance to the tug of the stream, and the four or
five pounds of dynamic energy at the end of her line would give her all
she could do to take care of for the next few minutes. Her pole was
braced against her body, which made reeling difficult. The man beside
her observed that except for a tendency to raise the pole too much she
was playing her trout like a veteran.

The thing that he had anticipated happened. Her foot slipped from its
insecure rock hold and she stumbled. His arm was round her waist in an
instant.

"Steady! Take your time."

"Thanks. I'm all right now."

His right arm still girdled her slight figure. It met with his approval
that she had not cried out or dropped her pole, but he would not take
the chance of an accident.

[Illustration: "HE'S HOOKED PRETTY FAST. TAKE YOUR TIME ABOUT GETTING
HIM INTO YOUR NET. THESE BIG FELLOWS ARE LIKELY TO SQUIRM AWAY." (p. 33)]

The trout was tiring. Inch by inch she brought him nearer. Sometimes he
would dart away again, but each dash for liberty was shorter and weaker
than the last.

Presently she panted, "My landing net."

It was caught in the creel. Kilmeny unfastened the net and brought it
round where it would be ready for instant use.

"Tell me what I must do now."

"He's hooked pretty fast. Take your time about getting him into your
net, and be careful then. These big fellows are likely to squirm away."

It was a ticklish moment when she let go of the rod with her left hand
to slip the net under the trout, but she negotiated it in safety.

"Isn't he a whopper?" she cried in delight. "He won't go into the creel
at all."

"Then let me have him. The glory is yours. I'll be your gillie to carry
the game bag."

He got his fingers through its gill before he took the hook from the
mouth of the fish. Carrying the trout in one hand and his pole in the
other, he waded slowly through the swift water to the sho