She saw him a little later out on the bay in the _Panther's_ dink,
standing up in the little boat, making long, graceful casts with a
pliant rod. She perceived that this manner of fishing was highly
successful, insomuch as at every fourth or fifth cast a trout struck his
fly, breaking water with a vigorous splash. Then the bamboo would arch
as the fish struggled, making sundry leaps clear of the water, gleaming
like silver each time he broke the surface, but coming at last tamely to
Jack Fyfe's landing net. Of outdoor sports she knew most about angling,
for her father had been an ardent fly-caster. And she had observed with
a true angler's scorn the efforts of her brother's loggers to catch the
lake trout with a baited hook, at which they had scant success. Charlie
never fished. He had neither time nor inclination for such fooling, as
he termed it. Fyfe stopped fishing when the donkeys whistled six. It
happened that when he drew in to his cookhouse float, Stella was
standing in her kitchen door. Fyfe looked up at her and held aloft a
dozen trout strung by the gills on a stick, gleaming in the sun.
"Vanity," she commented inaudibly. "I wonder if he thinks I've been
admiring his skill as a fisherman?"
Nevertheless she paid tribute to his skill when ten minutes later he
sent a logger with the entire catch to her kitchen. They looked
toothsome, those lakers, and they were. She cooked one for her own
supper and relished it as a change from the everlasting bacon and ham.
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