Neale thought he heard a cry behind him.
He was sitting down, in awkward posture. But he lifted and swung.
The line snapped. The fish dropped in the grass and began to thresh.
Frantically Neale leaped to prevent the escape of the hugest trout
he had ever seen. There was a dark flash--a commotion before him.
Then he stood staring in bewilderment at Allie, who held the
wriggling trout by the gills.
"You don't know how to fish!" she exclaimed, with great severity.
"I don't, eh?" ejaculated Neale, blankly.
"You should play a big trout. You lifted him right out. He broke
your line. He'd have--gotten--away--but for me."
She ended, panting a little from her exertion and quick speech. A
red spot showed in each white cheek. Her eyes were resolute and
flashing. It dawned upon Neale that he had never before seen a tinge
of color in her face, nor any of the ordinary feelings of life
glancing in her eyes. Now she seemed actually pretty. He had made a
discovery--perhaps he had now another means to distract her from
herself. Then the squirming trout drew his attention and he took it
from her.
"What a whopper! Oh, say, Allie, isn't he a beauty? I could hug--I--
You bet I'm thankful. You were quick.... He certainly is slippery."
Allie dropped to her knees and wiped her hands on the grass while
Neale killed the fish and strung it upon a willow with the others he
had caught.
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