CHAPTER XII
"THEM DAMN SNAKE"
Three hundred yards up the river, in the shade of a huge bowlder,
round an end of which the water hurried in a green swirl that it
might the sooner lie quiet in the deep, dark pool below, Good
Indian, picking his solitary way over the loose rocks, came
unexpectedly upon Baumberger, his heavy pipe sagging a corner of
his flabby mouth, while he painstakingly detached a fly from his
leader, hooked it into the proper compartment of his fly-book,
and hesitated over his selection of another to take its place.
Absorption was writ deep on his gross countenance, and he
recognized the intruder by the briefest of flickering glances and
the slightest of nods.
"Keep back from that hole, will yuh?" he muttered, jerking his
head toward the still pool. "I ain't tried it yet."
Good Indian was not particularly interested in his own fishing.
The sight of Baumberger, bulking there in the shade with his
sagging cheeks and sagging pipe, his flopping old hat and baggy
canvas fishing-coat, with his battered basket slung over his
slouching shoulder and sagging with the weight of his catch; the
sloppy wrinkles of his high, rubber boots shining blackly from
recent immersion in the stream, caught his errant attention, and
stayed him for a few minutes to watch.
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