That was when a shimmering thing slithered up, snapped at the
fly, and flashed away to the tune of singing reel and the dance
of the swaying rod. The man grew suddenly cruel and crafty and
full of lust; and Good Indian, watching him, was conscious of an
inward shudder of repulsion. He had fished all his life--had
Good Indian--and had found joy in the sport. And here was he
inwardly condemning a sportsman who stood self-revealed,
repelling, hateful; a man who gloated over the struggle of
something alive and at his mercy; to whom sport meant power
indulged with impunity. Good Indian did not try to put the thing
in words, but he felt it nevertheless.
"Brute!" he muttered aloud, his face eloquent of cold disgust.
At that moment Baumberger drew the tired fish gently into the
shallows, swung him deftly upon the rocks, and laid hold of him
greedily.
"Ain't he a beaut?" he cried, in his wheezy chuckle. "Wait a
minute while I weigh him. He'll go over a pound, I'll bet money
on it.
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