An hour passed. Then two.
"No fish," murmured Condy, drawing in his line to examine the
bait. But, as he was fumbling with the flies he was startled by a
sharp exclamation from Blix.
"Oh-Condy-I've-got-a-bite!"
He looked up just in time to see the tip of her rod twitch,
twitch, twitch. Then the whole rod arched suddenly, the reel
sang, the line tautened and cut diagonally through the water.
"You got him! you got him!" he shouted, palpitating with
excitement. "And he's a good one!"
Blix rose, reeling in as rapidly as was possible, the butt of the
twitching, living rod braced against her belt. All at once the
rod straightened out again, the strain was released, and the line
began to slant rapidly away from the boat.
"He's off!" she cried.
"Off, nothing! HE'S GOING TO JUMP. Look out for him, now!"
And then the two watching from the boat, tense and quivering with
the drama of the moment, saw that most inspiriting of sights--the
"break" of a salmon-trout. Up he went, from a brusque explosion
of ripples and foam--up into the gray of the morning from out the
gray of the water: scales all gleaming, hackles all a-bristle; a
sudden flash of silver, a sweep as of a scimitar in gray smoke,
with a splash, a turmoil, an abrupt burst of troubled sound that
stabbed through the silence of the morning, and in a single
instant dissipated all the placid calm of the previous hours.
"Keep the line taut," whispered Condy, gritting his teeth.
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