Loosely disreputable looked Lawyer Baumberger, from the snagged
hole in his hat-crown where a wisp of graying hair fluttered
through, to the toes of his ungainly, rubber-clad feet; loosely
disreputable, but not commonplace and not incompetent. Though
his speech might be a slovenly mumble, there was no purposeless
fumbling of the fingers that chose a fly and knotted it fast upon
the leader. There was no bungling movement of hand or foot when
he laid his pipe upon the rock, tiptoed around the corner, sent a
mechanical glance upward toward the swaying branches of an
overhanging tree, pulled out his six feet of silk line with a
sweep of his arm, and with a delicate fillip, sent the fly
skittering over the glassy center of the pool.
Good Indian, looking at him, felt instinctively that a part, at
least, of the man's nature was nakedly revealed to him then. It
seemed scarcely fair to read the lust of him and the utter
abandonment to the hazard of the game. Pitiless he looked, with
clenched teeth just showing between the loose lips drawn back in
a grin that was half-snarl, half-involuntary contraction of
muscles sympathetically tense.
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