Three times Grant made ready to dip, and once he sunk the net deep in the water; and three times the weakening fish darted off, setting the reel whirring. On the last occasion both lads obtained a good view of the finny fellow, magnified by the water, and therefore looking large indeed. “He certain is a corker, Phil,” breathed Grant. “Bring him up again. I’ll get him next time.” “Sink the net as I reel him toward you,” instructed Springer, “and be ready to make a quick scoop under him. Here he comes now.” Moving a bit heavily and slowly in protest against the treatment it was receiving, the fish was reeled in toward Grant, who obeyed directions faithfully, accomplishing the final _coup_ by a swift forward and upward movement of the sunken net. “Ah-ha!” exulted Springer. “That’s the sus-stuff! You did it fine, Rod.” They waded ashore, and Phil, thrusting a thumb and finger into the fish’s gills, lifted the shining, spotted trout, flapping helplessly, from amid the meshes. “Look!” he cried proudly. “Just had him caught by the corner of the lip. A pull an ounce too hard would have lost him.” “Say,” said the Texan approvingly, “I opine you handled that baby right skilful. Jingoes! but he’s a beaut. Must weight better than two pounds.” “Two and a-half, I should say,” nodded Phil, regarding his catch with a self-satisfied air. “He’ll go well for bub-breakfast.” Rodney smacked his lips. “I should guess yes. Two or three more like that will make a mess for a hungry bunch.” The creature was placed in the basket they had brought for that purpose, and Grant, eager to emulate his friend’s example, soon recovered his abandoned rod and resumed casting. Springer likewise lost little time in once more applying himself to the task of whipping the pool at the mouth of the brook. By this time the sun was up, and in the near-by dewy thickets they could occasionally hear the flutter of a wing or the rustle of a running squirrel. The morning was breathless, and the surface of the lake reflected the sunlight like a polished mirror; but under the bushes along the shore were shadows in which trout might lie, and the artificial flies at the ends of the silken lines went dropping into those shadows and skimming across them, propelled by gentle movements of the rods that gave the luring baits the lifelike appearance of swimming insects. At intervals Grant caught his hook in the bushes or tangled his line, but he could see that he was really making some progress in the art of casting, and he held his patience, despite these annoying interruptions. And it was Rodney who got the second strike. He saw the swirl of the darting fish and gave the rod a sharp jerk, after the manner of Springer, instantly shot through by a thrill as he felt the line tighten, saw the bamboo bend and heard his reel humming. “You’ve got him!” cried Phil. “Now pup-play him—play him carefully. Don’t let him have the slack when he stops. Be ready to reel in.”