him, for I am certain he will look
exactly like Charles the Strong going down Tommy Kempton's Run. He was
shod in his shoepacks, and he seemed to me to have one foot always in
the air wildly reaching out for the next rock--the pair of flies,
meanwhile, describing lightning circles over every pool and riffle,
lingering just long enough to prove the futility of the cast, to be
lying an instant later in a new spot, several yards below. If ever there
is a tournament for swift and accurate fly-casting down a flight of
rugged stone stairs I want to enter Charles for first honors against the
world. But I would not bet on any fish--I want that stipulated. I would
not gamble to that extent. I would not gamble even on one fish after
being a witness to our guide's experience.

That was a mad race. The rest of us kept a little to one side, out of
his way, and not even Del and Eddie could keep up with him. And with all
that wild effort not a fish would rise--nor even break water. It was
strange--it was past believing--I suppose it was even funny. It must
have been, for I seem to recall that we fairly whooped our joy at his
acrobatic eagerness. Why, with such gymnastics, Charles did not break
his neck I cannot imagine. With the utmost watchfulness I barely missed
breaking mine as much as a dozen times.

The time was more than half-expired when we reached the foot of the run,
and still no fish, not even a rise. Yet the game was not over. It was
supposable that this might be the place of places for fish. Five fish in
five minutes were still possible, if small. The guide leaped and waded
to a smooth, commanding stone and cast--once--twice, out over the
twisting water. Then, suddenly, almost in front of him, it seemed, a
great wave rolled up from the depths--there was a swish and a quick
curving of the rod--a monstrous commotion, and a struggle in the water.
It was a king of fish, we could all see that, and the rest of us gave a
shout of approval.

But if Charles was happy, he did not look it. In fact, I have never seen
any one act so unappreciative of a big fish, nor handle it in so
unsportsmanlike a manner. If I remember his remark it had damn and hell
mixed up in it, and these words were used in close association with that
beautiful trout. His actions were even worse. He made no effort to play
his catch--to work him gradually to the net, according to the best form.
Nothing of the kind. You'd have supposed our guide had never seen a