"Lee ought to have first choice," said Arthur. "It's always been supposed that Lee is your senior by a matter of twenty minutes." "True or not," said Gay, "she looks it. Then I'm to guide the Englishman." "If you don't mind." Arthur regarded her, smiling. He couldn't help it. She was _so_ pretty. "And I'd advise you not to be too eager to show off. Mr. Pritchard has hunted and fished more than all of us put together." "That little pink-faced snip!" exclaimed Gay. "I'll sure see how much he knows." Half an hour later she was rowing him leisurely in the direction of Placid Brook, and examining his somewhat remarkable outfit with wondering eyes. This was not difficult, since his own eyes, which were clear brown, and very shy, were very much occupied in looking over the contents of the large-tackle box. "If you care to rig your rod," said Gay presently, "and cast about as we go, you might take something between here and the brook." "Do you mean," he said, "that you merely throw about you at random, and that it is possible to take fish?" "Of course," said she--"when they are rising." "But then the best one could hope for," he drawled, "would be indiscriminate fish." "Just what do you mean by that?" "Why!"--and this time he looked up and smiled very shyly--"if you were after elephant and came across a herd, would you pick out a bull with a fine pair of tusks, or would you fire indiscriminately into the thick of them, and perhaps bring down the merest baby?" "I never heard of picking your fish," said Gay. "Dear me," he commented, "then you have nearly a whole lifetime of delightful study before you!" He unslung a pair of field-glasses, focussed them, and began to study the surface of the placid lake, not the far-off surface but the surface within twenty or thirty feet. Then he remarked: "Your flies aren't greatly different from ours. I think we shall find something nearly right. One can never tell. The proclivities of trout and char differ somewhat. I have never taken char." "You don't think you are after char now, do you?" exclaimed Gay. "Because, if so--this lake contains bass, trout, lake-trout, sunfish, shiners, and bullheads, but no char." Pritchard smiled a little sadly and blushed. He hated to put people right. "Your brook-trout," he said, "your _salmo fontinalis_, isn't a trout at all. He's a char." Gay put her back into the rowing with some temper. She felt that the Englishman had insulted the greatest of all American institutions. The repartee which sprang to her lips was somewhat feeble. "If a trout is a char," she said angrily, "then an onion is a fruit."