The Go Ahead Boys in the Island Camp Part 16

"Don't lose him," begged Grant. "Look at him go."

The light rod was almost in the shape of a horseshoe and it scarcely seemed possible that it could stand the strain. Back and forth and around and across the pool the trout carried the hook. Fred strove to keep a constant pressure on the line in order to tire the fish out; he did not try to check his frequent bold rushes, however, but rather to prevent the line from becoming slack at any time.

One moment he would reel the line in swiftly and there would be almost no resistance at all; the next moment, however, just as he and Grant had come to the conclusion that the struggle was practically ended, off would go the line again while the reel sang loudly.

Fred was white-lipped, he was so excited. But who wouldn't be, for there is no more thrilling sport in the world than to fight a big trout with a five-ounce rod?

"I believe he's tiring," exclaimed Fred at length.

"A little, perhaps," agreed Fred.

"I wish he'd jump so we could see him."

"If he does I'll lose him. That's one of the things I'm doing my best to prevent."

"Why so?" demanded Grant in surprise.

"If a fish can jump clear of the water he can very often shake the hook out of his mouth. I've seen it happen too often."

"But I don't see how you can prevent it."

"If I keep a steady strain on him all the time, he can't jump. It's only when the line is slack that they have a chance to do that."

"Look at him go!" exclaimed Grant. "Wouldn't you think he'd be getting tired by this time?"

"He is. His rushes aren't as long as they were before."

"Does that mean you've got him?"

"Not at all. You've never caught a trout until he is safely on the sh.o.r.e."

Fred had not once taken his eyes from the line while he was talking with Grant. Carefully, coolly and with great skill he played his fish. Never once did he relax his caution, and little by little he seemed to be gaining the mastery. Every rush was shorter than the one before, and after every one he reeled in a bit more of line and brought the trout a trifle nearer to the sh.o.r.e and the net.

"Get ready, Grant," said Fred in a tense voice.

The handle of the net in his right hand, Grant knelt on the rocks on the edge of the pool. He was just to the left of the spot where his comrade was standing and he now watched the line just as closely as Fred.

"Let me know when to scoop him," he said.

"You'll know all right," replied Fred. "You'll see him in the water."

"You tell me, though."

"All right."

The plucky trout was tiring rapidly now. His struggles became weaker and weaker. Fred had played him well, but he was too seasoned a fisherman to feel that the fight was ended. Bitter experience had taught him that there is many a slip.

"Get the net ready," exclaimed Fred after what seemed like a very long time to Grant, who was not comfortable in the position he was in.

Nearer and nearer Fred brought the trout. He still struggled weakly but was practically exhausted now. Relentlessly Fred reeled in the line.

Once the trout broke the water with his tail not a dozen feet from sh.o.r.e and Grant held his breath; he thought the fish had escaped.

Not so, however, for a moment later he could see him in the water being drawn remorselessly closer to the net. Grant was in a panic for fear he should not do his part correctly.

"Now, Grant!" cried Fred suddenly.

The trout was in the water almost at Grant's feet. His struggles were very weak now and thanks to the way Fred handled the rod, was nearly motionless. Carefully Grant lowered the net into the water and moved it along until it was almost underneath the beaten fish; then with a quick motion he raised the net and a moment later the trout lay upon the bank enmeshed in its folds.

"Nice work, Grant!" exclaimed Fred. "You did that like a veteran!"

"Isn't he a beauty!" cried Grant delightedly.

"He surely is."

"How much do you suppose he weighs?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'd hate to say; two pounds and a half, I guess."

"That's pretty big, isn't it?" inquired Grant.

"It is for this part of the country and it's all I'd care to tackle with a five-ounce rod."

Fred had removed the hook from the fish's mouth now and he held him up to view.

"He's all right," said Grant admiringly.

"What do you suppose Pop will say about him?" grinned Fred. "I don't believe he can match him, do you?"

"I don't know," said Grant doubtfully. "I'd hate to bet on it. You can't ever be sure what he'll do."

"Huh," laughed Fred derisively. "He couldn't catch a trout like that to save his life."

"Wait and see," cautioned Grant.

CHAPTER XI-WHAT GEORGE DID

"Well, I suppose we might as well go back now," said Fred. "It'll be dark before long."

"All right," agreed Grant, reluctantly. "I wish I might have caught a trout like that one of yours though."

"I'll stay if you want to."

"No, I guess not," said Grant. "As you say it will be dark soon and we might as well go back."