"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. Good mind to try it on the big one. Don't see
how I didn't miss it out of my book--I must be getting
absent-minded. Sign of old age, that. Failing powers and the
like." He shook his head reprovingly and grinned, as if he
considered the idea something of a joke. "Have to buck up--a
lawyer can't afford to grow absent-minded. He's liable to wake
up some day and find himself without his practice."
He got his fly-book from the basket swinging at his left hip,
opened it, turned the leaves with the caressing touch one gives
to a cherished thing, and very carefully placed the fly upon the
page where it belonged; gazed gloatingly down at the tiny, tufted
hooks, with their frail-looking five inches of gut leader, and
then returned the book fondly to the basket.
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