"Took half my leader and my pet fly--I got him with a peacock-bodied gray hackle that I revised to suit my own notions--and, by the great immortal Jehosaphat, he looked like a whale when he jumped up clear of the riffle, turned over, and--" His flabby, white hand made a soaring movement to indicate the manner in which the four-pounder had vanished.
"Better take a day off and go with me, Pete," he suggested, getting an unwieldy-looking pipe from the pocket of his canvas fishing-coat, and opening his eyes at a trout-fly snagged in the mouthpiece.

"Now, how did that fly come there ?" he asked aggrievedly, while he released it daintily for all his fingers looked so fat and awkward.

He stuck the pipe in the corner of his mouth, and held up the fly with that interest which seems fatuous to one who has no sporting blood in his veins.
"Last time I used that fly was when I was down here three weeks ago--the day I lost the big one.

Ain't it a beauty, eh?
Tied it myself.

And, by the great immortal Jehosaphat, it fetches me the rainbows, too.