But the Babe was not making long, delicate casts.

On such a day as this the somewhat unsophisticated trout of Silverwater demanded no subtleties.
They were hungry, and they were feeding close inshore, and the Babe was having great sport.

The fish were not large, but they were clean, trim-jawed, bright fellows, some of them not far short of the half-pound; and the only blue-bottle in the ointment of the Babe's exultation was that Uncle Andy was not on hand to see his triumph.

To be sure, the proof would be in the pan that night, browned in savory cornmeal after the fashion of the New Brunswick backwoods.

But the Babe had in him the makings of a true sportsman, and for him a trout had just one brief moment of unmatchable perfection--the moment when it was taken off the hook and held up to be gloated over or coveted.
The raft had been anchored, carelessly enough, by running an inner corner lightly aground.