F L Y-F ISHING IN THE SCHUYLKILL RIVER 



Gills, the secretary, was slight and wiry, with 

 the nerve, strength, and endurance of an ox; a 

 ready and willing hand at camp chores; a me- 

 chanical expert; a rod-maker and fly-featherer; 

 and a practical, observant fisherman. What he 

 didn't know about fish, the scaly fellows them- 

 selves didn't know. He pinned his faith to the 

 practice of allowing a fish all the line it could 

 draw from a click-reel, and did not take stock in 

 the " holding hard and killing quick " methods of 

 many anglers. 



Mendy, the treasurer, had the qualities of good 

 fellowship and intense unreliability on the subject 

 of fish and fishing so blended that you were apt 

 alternately to forget the one in the outcrop of the 

 other. For a moment or two you would be de- 

 lighted and the next appalled at his daring men- 

 dacity, wondering meanwhile at your sufferance, 

 and still more surprised at your condonation of the 

 extensions that fell from his lips more rapidly than 

 raindrops from a storm-cloud; yet, with it all, he 

 was an angler in every sense of the term. Strange 

 to note, he was scrupulously truthful on every 

 other subject except fish and fish-catching. 



The midsummer evening came slowly on, with 

 a favorable outlook. The rays of the sun still 

 slanted down over the river, with here and there 

 spots of shadow, made by the occasional elms on 

 the western bank. A fitful breeze was blowing, 



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