“There’s one now,” said Duane, laughing as Delancy Grandcourt’s bulk appeared among the trees along Hurryon Water.  “Lord! what a bungler he is on a trout-stream!”

Rosalie turned and gazed at the big, clumsy young man who was fishing with earnestness and method every unlikely pool in sight.

“Does he belong to anybody?” she asked, considering him.  “I want to do real damage.  He is usually at Geraldine’s heels, isn’t he?”

“Oh, let him alone,” said Duane; “he’s an awfully decent fellow.  If a man of that slow, plodding, faithful species ever is thoroughly aroused by a woman, it will be a lively day for his tormentor.”

Rosalie’s blue eyes sparkled:  “Will it?”

“Yes, it will.  You had better not play hob with Delancy.  Are you intending to?”

“I don’t know.  Look at the man!  That’s the fourth time he’s landed his line in a bush!  He’ll fall into that pool if he’s not—­mercy!—­there he goes!  Did you ever see such a genius for clumsiness?”

She was moving forward through the trees as she spoke; Duane called after her in a warning voice: 

“Don’t try to do anything to disturb him.  It’s not good sport; he’s a mighty decent sort, I tell you.”

“I won’t play any tricks on your good young man,” she said with a shrug of contempt, and sauntered off toward the Gray Water.  Her path, however, crossed Grandcourt’s, and as she stepped upon the footbridge she glanced down, where, wading gingerly in mid-stream, Delancy floundered and panted and barely contrived to maintain a precarious footing, while sending his flies sprawling down the rapids.

“Good-morning,” she nodded, as he caught sight of her.  He attempted to take off his cap, slipped, wallowed, and recovered his balance by miracle alone.

“There’s a thumping big trout under that bridge,” he informed her eagerly; “he ran downstream just now, but I can’t seem to raise him.”

“You splash too much.  You’d probably raise him if you raised less of something else.”

“Is that it?” he inquired innocently.  “I try not to, but I generally manage to raise hell with every pool before I get a chance to fish it.  I’ll show you just where he lies.  Watch!”

His cast of flies whistled wildly; there was a quick pang of pain in her shoulder and she gave a frightened cry.

“Good Lord!  Have I got you?” he exclaimed, aghast.

“You certainly have,” she retorted, exasperated, “and you had better come up and get this hook out!  You’ll need it if you want to fish any more.”

Dripping and horrified, he scrambled up the bank to the footbridge; she flinched, but made no sound, as he freed her from the hook; a red stain appeared on the sleeve of her waist, above the elbow.

“It’s fortunate that it was a b-barbless hook,” he stammered, horribly embarrassed and contemplating with dismay the damage he had accomplished; “otherwise,” he added, “we would have had to cut out the hook.  We’re rather lucky, I think.  Is it very painful?”