“I’d cast across the rush at the head of the pool and let the fly come down,” said Alton.  “There’s generally a big trout lying in the eddy behind the boulder.”

The girl nodded, and the line sweeping back towards the pines behind her went forward again.  It fell lightly amidst the frothing rush, and Alton smiled approval as he watched the rod point follow it downstream towards a foam-licked rock.  It swung to and fro a moment, then slid on again towards the still black stretch behind the stone, tightened there suddenly, and ran, tense and straight, upstream again, while the reel clacked and rattled.

“A big one,” said Alton quietly.  “Check the winch a little, and keep the butt down.  He can’t face the rapid, and you’ll lose him unless you can keep a strain on when he turns again.”

The girl flung herself backwards, with eyes dilated and a warmth in her cheeks, the rod bending above her, and the line ripping its way towards the welter at the head of the pool.  There it curved inwards a trifle, and Alton shouted, “Reel!”

There was a quick rattle, something broke the water with a silvery flash, and the line was shooting downstream again.

“Let him go, unless he makes for the fir yonder,” said Alton quietly.

For the space of several minutes the line swept up and down the pool, and Miss Deringham watched it almost breathlessly with fingers on the reel.  Then it swept straight towards the fallen fir.

“Stop him!” said Alton.  “It’s a good trace.  Keep the butt down.”

The rod bent further, a big silvery body rushed clear of the water and went down again, while next moment the line stopped and quivered as it rasped against the fallen fir.  Miss Deringham turned to her companion with a gesture of consternation.

“Oh!” she said breathlessly.  “It has gone.”

“I don’t know,” said Alton, “That trace is a good deal thicker than what you use in England.  I’ll see if I can get him.  Keep your thumb on the reel.”

He took up a net, and clambering along the ledge sprang lightly upon the log.  It was sharply rounded, the bark was wet, and the way along it obstructed by the stake-like ends of torn-off limbs, but the man crawled forward foot by foot with the swift whirl of current close beneath him.  Then he knelt where the tree dipped almost level with the flood, and grasping the line with one hand swept the net in and out amidst the broken-off branches, while the girl watching him fancied she could see a bright flash between the splashes.  Presently he rose again shaking his head, with nothing in the net.

“Give me a yard or two when I shout,” he said.