Nova Scotia Trout-Fishing 



he had ever met in ten years that had told him any new- 

 stories. 



At that time I was not cognizant of the fact that 

 professional guides probably hear more new stories than 

 any men on the face of the earth. Feeling rather pleased 

 at my apparent success in damming this lauwine of 

 words, in wliich I seemed unable to take part, I smoked 

 my pipe in fancied security while Joe replenished the 

 fire. The new blaze seemed to stimulate my own 

 narrating proclivities, and I found myself confidentially 

 telling Walter, just loud enough for Joe to hear, about 

 how much money I had made in Wall Street. I talked 

 quite a long time to a very silent and unresponsive 

 audience. Finally, running down and my story sort 

 of petering out, as a story will under such adverse con- 

 ditions, Joe drawled: 



" I made a lot of money once." 



" How much did you make, Joe ?" I asked con- 

 descendingly. 



" Five dollars a minute," he asserted. 



'' Five dollars a minute !" I exclaimed. " How'd 

 you do it ?" 



" Swallowin' live frogs !" said Joe. 



Walter was mean enough to laugh, and Joe was 

 impudent enough to join him. 



The following morning Joe rowed us over as far as the 

 Screecher Carry, skirting en route the south-western 

 shore of Lake Rossignol. I trolled with a live minnow 

 for bait, and picked up several good-sized trout on the 

 way. Walter tossed an astonishingly long line, with the 

 aid of an inimitable flip of the wrist, behind every likely- 

 looking rock or log that we passed, and hooked fish in 

 the most unexpected places. He was remarkably skilful 

 at hooking them " on the wing." The speed and 

 accuracy with which he was able to time the little jerk 



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