That's all well
enough in the tumblin' water, where you gen'rally go fur trout, but the
man that's got the true feelin' fur fish will try to suit his idees to
theirs, and if he keeps on doin' that, he's like to learn a thing or two
that may do him good. That's a fine fish, and you ketched him well. I've
got a lot of 'em, but nothin' of that heft."
After luncheon we fished for an hour or two with no result worth
recording, and then we started for home. A couple of partridges ran
across the road some distance ahead of us, and these gave Peter an idea.
"Do you know," said he, "if things go on as they're goin' on now, that
there'll come a time when it won't be considered high-toned sport to
shoot a bird slam-bang dead. The game gunners will pop 'em with little
harpoons, with long threads tied to 'em, and the feller that can tire
out his bird, and haul him in with the longest and thinnest piece of
spool thread, will be the crackest sportsman."
At this point I remarked to my companion that perhaps he was a little
hard on the game fishermen.
"Well," said old Peter, with a smile on his corrugated visage, "I reckon
I'd have to do a lot of talkin' before I'd git even with 'em, fur the
way they give me the butt for my style of fishin'. What I say behind
their backs I say to their faces.
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