March. 1918 
FOREST AND S T R E A M 
143 
Nick and I had quite a controversy as to 
who should make the first cast 
boulder’s shadow where he remained great¬ 
ly fanning his tail to keep his position in 
the current. 
“Jumpin’ Jehosephat, did you see that!” 
gasps Nick. “Did I see it!” I stutters, 
pinching myself until I hollered “Ouch 1 ” 
“Nick, if you saw what I saw you saw a 
whale!’’ “That trout’ll weigh six pounds, 
if he weighs an ounce!” whispers Nick. 
“Six pounds!” sneers I; “if that trout 
don’t weigh nine pounds, I’ll eat it raw l” 
“Naw, naw,” says Nick, “he’ll never go 
nine pounds—I said six pounds.” “I heard 
what you said,” snaps I, “but where did 
you ever get any medals for guessin’ the 
correct weight of fish? I’ve got ten dollars 
to your five that trout weighs nine pounds. 
Now either dig up or shut up!” 
“Aw, don't make a durn fool out of 
yourself, Newt,” says Nick, pickin’ up his 
rod; “there’ll be plenty of time to bet your 
money after I catch that trout.” “After 
YOU catch it!” I scoffs; “who elected 
YOU to catch that trout? Did YOU see 
it first?” “Aw, well, growls Nick, throw¬ 
ing down his rod, “if you feel that way 
about it go ahead and cast. I like to fish 
as well as anybody, but thank goodness I 
ain’t no fish-hog!” “You call me a fish- 
hog,” hisses I, bristling up, “and I’ll knock 
your nose around your left ear! If you 
think you own this river and everything in 
it, go ahead and cast for that trout! I 
wouldn't throw it a fly now if I knew it 
would swaller it whole!” “And after the 
way you’ve talked,” says Nick very peev¬ 
ish, “if that trout was to walk up here on 
the bank and try- to take my fly out of my 
hand, I’d jerk it away from him!” Then 
we sat there and sulked for ten minutes. 
“Tell you what I’ll do,” says Nick at 
last; “you’re such a reckless gambler I’ll 
match you to see which of us has the first 
cast at that trout?” “That’s agreeable to 
me,” says I, and we dug up a couple of 
pennies. Nick won. Then we agreed that 
if each man should make one cast without 
a rise, we were each to cast for intervals 
of exactly ten minutes. 
Nick scratched his head as he went thru 
his fly book. He studied the pool, the 
clouds and the slant of the sun. Then he 
bent on a Parmachene Belle and sneaking 
upstream soaked it well by a few casts. 
Moving quietly down to the edge of the 
pool behind a big rock, he stripped out 
about 35 feet of silk until he got his fly 
sailing well, then dropped Miss “Belle” 
well across the pool and above the trout, 
letting his fly sink as it moved with the 
current. At the psychological instant he 
twitched the fly homeward. It passed up¬ 
stream from the fish and within three feet 
of his nose, but the big beauty never batted 
an eye. Nick reeled in with a sigh and 
climbed up to where I sat. “Go to it,” 
says he. 
I already had my fly on—a White Miller 
with a lightweight body on a No. 8 hook— 
but I rested the pool perhaps ten minutes. 
Without wetting the fly I got it going well 
and dropped it as lightly as I could about 
ten feet af£>ve the trout. As it floated 
downstream on the surface I jiggled it 
slightly—twice! My heart began to climb 
into my mouth as the big fellow started 
slowly to rise—but a foot beneath my fly 
he shied off and returned off to his position 
while the feathers floated over him. 
During his next ten minutes’ try Nick 
'still stuck to his sunken fly- theory, chang¬ 
ing flies once, but without result. When 
my turn came I had on a dry fly leader 
and a dry fly—a Hare’s Ear. I floated it 
over the fish twice, but it was N. G. I had 
just switched to a member of the “Dun” 
family when Nick hollered, “Time!” and 
I left my post in disgust. 
I AM not going to dwell on how we 
thrashed that pool turn about all after¬ 
noon with never a rise from the wise 
old speckled fox. We tried flies wet and 
dry-—we served ’em to him floating and 
fluttering frantically, in all colors of the 
rainbow until there seemed to be nothing 
left untried in our “Bibles of Feathers” 
from Genesis to Revelation, but it was all 
without avail. The sun was down and the 
shadows were deepening on the pool before 
we admitted defeat and collected our tackle 
to trudge campward. Nick began turning 
over flat stones. “Lost something?” says 
I. “Nope,” says he, “I just found it,” and 
he held up a fat, glossy cricket. He flipped 
it into the pool. It was too dark to make 
out the cricket itself, but we could see 
the little wrinkles its struggles left on the 
surface as it floated down in the waning 
light. 
Presently there was a swirl, a gleam of 
gold on the dark surface and the cricket 
went the way of the moth-miller! “Well, 
he’s still there,” sighs Nick. “Yes,” says 
I, “and I’m guessin’ he’ll stay there until 
he learns ’ less sense than he has at the 
present writing.” Then we jogged toward 
the tent. 
After supper we sat until late before a 
little blaze of cheer, burning up tobacco, 
fighting mosquitoes and planning how to 
bring about the downfall of that Solomon 
of Plaster Pool. Next morning when the 
first suggestion of dawn fell upon the pool 
we were there to offer the big fellow 
feathers for breakfast. We had crept 
from our blankets in darkness and sneaked 
to the spot like a couple of Injuns, ambus¬ 
Came the limit to Nick’s patience and he 
splashed a big rock into the pool 
cading ourselves behind the big rock. We 
thought perhaps in the gray' of morning he 
might mistake a fly with a string to it for 
the real thing. But after half an hour’s 
quiet casting we gave up in despair. As 
the day grew brighter we could make out 
our quarry in his same old position. Then 
we returned to camp, snatched a bite of 
breakfast and hiked back to the pool. By 
mid-afternoon that fish had got on our 
nerves to such an extent that we were not 
fit to associate with each other—we were 
both crochetty, crabbed and snappy and be¬ 
gan to criticise each other’s casting. The 
climax came when Nick, who had changed 
flies five times, laid down his rod and 
snatching up as big a stone as he could 
lift heaved it into the pool with a mighty 
splash right on top of the trout! 
"Y’ou durn fool,” says I, “what are yx>u 
doin’!” “I’ll teach that old, lantern-jawed, 
over-grown, pie-faced fish,” snarls Nick, 
“not to take my flies!” “Now,” says I, 
“you’ve spoiled the pool for the rest of the 
day!” “I don’t care if I have,” hisses 
Nick; “I hope that rock hit him right on 
top of the bean, the old wall-eyed piker!” 
Day after day we neglected no’ oppor¬ 
tunity to win that big trout with a fair 
fly'. We offered him Brown Hackles by 
moonlight, Black Gnats at midnight and 
snow-white wings at high noon, but all he 
did was to lie snug in the shadow of his 
boulder and laugh up his sleeve. ” 
O NE sunny afternoon as we lounged 
on the shade beside the pool little 
Josiah, our red-headed, freckle-faced 
friend appeared above us coming down¬ 
stream. He »was burdened with a jar of 
milk, a pail of butter, a “fishin’-pole” and a 
stringer from which dangled four small 
trout. Josiah, it appeared, was combining 
business with pleasure. He grinned as he 
joined us in the shade. 
“You’re some fisherman, Josiah,” says 
Nick inspecting the kid’s catch. “Huh— 
them ain’t nothin’ but minners,” says Jo¬ 
siah contemptuously; “you oughta seen the 
big un what got away from me up river!” 
Then he told us all about it. Josiah’s fish¬ 
ing outfit was a sight to look at. The pole, 
about io feet long, was crooked as a dog’s 
hind leg. To the end of it was tied about 
eight feet of cord strong enough to hold a 
colt. On the end of the line was a big, vi¬ 
cious hook that looked more like a harpoon. 
For a sinker Josiah had tied on a stone 
half as big as a hen’s egg. 
I don’t think Josiah liked the remarks 
Nick and I made about his tackle. He 
looked at our bamboo rods, inspected the 
reels, slender lines, frail leaders and flies, 
(continued on pace 172) 
