But at least two of the defects could be simply remedied up to a certain though not entirely satisfactory point. He squatted down and, employing two hard stones, hammered gently at the malleable wire until he flattened out the end of it into a thin blade with sharp, jagged edges. Then, using his pocket-knife, he managed to cut several little slots in this thin blade, so that there resulted a series of roughnesses which were not unlike barbs; whereas he could put no great faith in any one of them holding very securely, at least, taken all together, they would tend toward keeping his hook, if once taken, from slipping out so smoothly. He re-bent his pin and suddenly looked up at her with a flashing grin. He robbed one of his boots of its string; he cut the first likely willow wand. Without stirring from his spot he dug in the moist earth and got his worm. And then, motioning her to be very still, he crept a few feet farther along the brook, found a pool which pleased him, hid behind a clump of bushes and gently lowered his baited hook toward the shadowy surface. And before the worm touched the water, a big trout saw and leaped and struck ... and did a clean job of snatching the worm off without having appeared to so much as touch the bent hairpin! Three quiet sounds came simultaneously: the splash of the falling fish, a grunt from Deveril, a gasp from Lynette. Deveril, thinking she was about to speak, glared at her in savage admonition for silence; she understood and remained motionless. Slowly he crept back to the spot where he had dug his worm, and scratched about until he had two more. One of them went promptly to his hook, while he held the other in reserve. Again he approached his pool, again he lowered his bait about the bush. This time the offering barely touched the water before the trout struck again. Now Deveril was ready for him, deftly manoeuvring his pole; his string tautened, his wallow bent, the fat, glistening trout swung above the racing water.... Lynette was already wondering how they were going to cook it!... There was again a splash, and Deveril stood staring at a silly-looking hairpin, dangling at the end of an absurd boot-lace. For now the hairpin failed to present the vaguest resemblance to any kind of a hook; the trout's weight had been more than sufficient to straighten it out so that the fish slipped off. Gradually, moving on noiseless feet, the girl withdrew; her last glimpse of Deveril, before she slipped out of sight among the willows, showed her his face, grim in its set purpose. He was trying the third time, and she believed that he would stand there without moving all day long, if necessary. In the meantime she was done with inactivity and watching; doing nothing when there was much to be done irked her.