TROLLING. 487 
Ego—“ Piscator, thou unbelieving Thomas! What would’st 
thou do with flies here ?” 
“Piscator—We of the brotherhood know them to work 
miracles, and therefore believe in their efficacy.” 
Ego—with a gasp and a sigh of exhaustion—“TI see! Ah, 
Piscator! Piscator! The ruling passion strong in death!” 
“ George—Looking behind him—“ A breeze! There comes 
a breeze, gentlemen !”” 
“Thank the good gods,” and I almost overset the boat as 
I lifted up my forehead eagerly to catch the first cool brush 
of its coming wing. 
“Now for a trout,” chuckled Piscator, with glistening eyes. 
Ah, it comes at last-—so cool—so balmily delicious—driving 
the white-topped wavelets before it—on! on with it came the 
black shadow of that angel-ridden cloud to shelter us. I 
could have shouted for my joy—aye, lifted up my exulting 
soul in peeans, as cloud after cloud came drifting on their 
white plumes over us, with a legion of airy ministers which 
had come to our relief; but that my eyes fell upon the warm 
face of Piscator, shining with perspiration and expanded into 
a smile of pleasing expectancy as he watched the vibrations 
of his line. I was amazed into dumbness. I gazed upon 
the devotee in “a mute astound,” when lo! a heavy jerk— 
a lurch and a shout, “you've got him!” from George, made 
me aware that a fish had struck. “Reel him in!” said 
George, as I hastily let go the line. “Reel him in,” he 
has line enough.” I reeled away, while Piscator, too 
generous to show his disappointment, did the like with 
his, watching at the same time with benevolent interest 
for my success. 
It was a pause of breathless interest, as I reeled rapidly 
up for a few moments. ‘Curse it, George,” I exclaimed 
petulantly, “I feel nothing—the fellow has broken away.” 
He was watching my line—“<No! no! reel on—you have 
him, you'll feel him directly.” Reel! reel! reel! and 
