f from the root
of the feather, a small quill or two, and handed them over. With a
length of red silk drawn from his sash John, within half an hour, was
bending a very pretty fly on the hook. It did not in the least
resemble any winged creature upon earth; but it had a meretricious
air about it, and even a "killing" one when he finished up by binding
its body tight with an inch of gilt thread from his collar.
Meanwhile, his ambition growing with success, he had cast his eyes
about, to alight on a long jointed cane which the canoe carried as
part of its appanage, to be lifted on cross-legs and serve as the
ridge of an awning on wet nights. It was cumbrous, but flexible in
some small degree. Muskingon dragged it within reach, and sat
watching while John whipped a loop to its end and ran the line
through it.

He had begun in pure idleness, but now the production of the rod had
drawn everyone's eyes. Barboux was watching him superciliously, and
Menehwehna with grave attention, resting his paddle on his knees
while the canoe drifted. Fish had been leaping throughout the
afternoon--salmon by the look of them. John knew something of
salmon; he had played and landed many a fish out of the Dart above
Totnes, and in his own river below Cleeve Court. The sun had dropped
behind the woods, the water was not too clear, and in short it looked
a likely hour for feeding. He lifted his clumsy rod in his right
hand, steadied it with his injured left, and put all his skill into
the cast.

As he cast, the weight of his rod almost overbalanced him: a dart of
pain came from his closing wound and he knew that he had been a fool
and overtaxed his strength. But to his amazement a fish rose at once
and gulped the fly down. He tossed the rod across to Muskingon,
calling to him to draw it inboard and sit quite still; and catching
the line, tautened it and slackened it out slowly, feeling up to the
loop in which (as was to be expected) it had kinked and was sticking
fast.

He had the line in both hands now, with Muskingon paying out the
slack behind him; and if the hook held--the line had no gut--he felt
confident of his fish. By the feel of him he was a salmon--or a
black bass. John had heard of black bass and the sport they gave.
A beauty, at any rate!

Yes, he was a salmon. Giving on the line but never slackening it,
though it cut his forefinger cruelly (his left being all but useless
to check the friction), John worked him t