GEORGE DAW SON. 57 



over the loss of a big fish overtopped the grief of losing 

 one of those marvelous hooks; but that grief in solid 

 chunks was abundant in a little clump of swamp willows 

 is certain. The gut snell was frayed and had parted in 

 the middle, as if chafed over something rough ; and after 

 bending on a new hook I came upon young George near 

 a little foot-bridge, on which most of his clothing lay in a 

 wet state. 



" What's the matter, George?" 



"Fell in. How many you got?" 



"Nine, nice ones; but I just lost an old whopper and 

 one of those hooks your father gave me. How many 

 have you got, and how did you fall in?" 



"I only caught three; the fish get scared as soon as 

 they see you and scoot away. I was after one that started 

 down stream, and stepped on a slippery stone and just 

 plunked in, that's all." 



After pointing out to him that trout must not be 

 chased in order to make them take the hook, he was re- 

 minded of what his father had told him about not letting 

 the fish see him, but in his anxiety to get a worm under a 

 trout's nose all rules had been forgotten. The morning's 

 work had brought on a first-class appetite on my school- 

 mate as well as on me, and Mr. Dawson had the material 

 to alleviate and cure that gnawing sensation if he could 

 be found. Leaving all my traps and fish at the foot- 

 bridge, I started down stream to find Mr. Dawson. Soon 

 he hove in sight, coming up stream, and he had a string 

 of about twenty fine trout. "It's getting near midday and 

 the fish are not biting well, so we might as well rest and 

 eat a bite," said he, "and then by the time we are through 

 and walk back to the station the freight train will be along 

 and we will go back in the caboose, as the agent said, for 

 if we wait here for more fishing we will not get home to- 



