68 Rod, Gun, and Palette in the High Rockies 



"What makes you think it's a good day for duck. If I want 

 to get the truth out of you, I have to ." 



The artist broke in. "There was a heavy wind last night, 

 and a storm. That would have driven them from the lake into 

 the shelter of the reed beds and willow channels. It won't clear 

 till afternoon, if at all, and then you'll have a chance for the 

 trout again." 



Sceptical or not, William and Arthur took the artist at his 

 word and departed, returning at noon with some fine mallards, 

 one bird rather heavier and fuller fleshed than the rest. 



After lunch came out leader boxes, fly books, envelopes of 

 feathers of many kinds and tints, papers of hooks, odd twists of 

 silk floss of gay color, twists of tinsel, gold and silver thread, 

 and all the small impedimenta dear to the fly fisher's heart. 

 With leaders and snells soaking in a bowl of warm water beside 

 him, to work William went in craftsmanlike fashion, in the con- 

 triving of flies of new and strange alluringness to match one 

 taken by the artist from the water the preceding evening, to 

 which the trout were then rising freely. A blunt nosed pair of 

 small scissors hanging on his dexter little finger, for convenience 

 in dividing strands of gut and silk, and trimming feathers, 

 William discoursed of the mysteries of fly building, the while he 

 whipped a bunch of feathers to the shank of a hook. The whip- 

 ping concluded, came the moment of final trimming. With 

 confident hand the craftsman groped upon the table, as he eyed 

 the all but completed creation upon the snell. "As I was say- 

 ing — Now, where are those scissors?" And further he rummaged, 

 while Art and the artist exchanged glances. With methodical 

 care the searcher explored the table. "Now, I know I had those 

 scissors a minute ago." The table searched, in growing resent- 

 ment at the innate depravity of inanimate things, the search was 

 transferred to the trunk from which the box of fly-making material 

 had come forth. Vocal protest, half breathed, began to make 

 the air blue, and the sulphurous fire began to sizzle along the 

 edges of the woodwork within a sotto voce vocal range. A 

 half-suppressed snicker caught the searcher's ear. He gazed, 

 his eye traveled to his own minor digit, where the missing im- 

 plement obediently hung. 



"Allright, they're on me," and with this neat double 



