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These thoughts were lightning-like, as he swung his rod-butt round, and brought it down heavily upon a big mongrel dog that splashed through the shallows, knocked it right over, to lie yelping and whining as it tore up water and sand, the second dog contenting itself with yapping, snarling, and making little charges, till a lucky blow caught it upon the leg, and sent it howling back.
He ran off a little more, slower this time, then stopped. The kite began to flutter. I fell into the chair, jammed the rod-butt into the socket, and began to pump and wind. "Doc, you're hooked on and you've stopped him!" boomed Dan. His face beamed. "Look at your legs!"
And she listened, heart intent, until he spoke no more; and the sea-wind rose again filling her ears with the ceaseless menace of the surf. After a while he picked up his rod, and sat erect and cross-legged as she sat, and flicked the flies, absently, across the grass, aiming at wind-blown butterflies. "All these changes!" he exclaimed with a sweep of the rod-butt toward Widgeon Bay.
I looked at Dan and he looked at me. Neither of us was excited nor particularly elated. I guess I did not realize what was actually going on. I let him have about one hundred and fifty feet of line. When I sat down to jam the rod-butt in the socket I had awakened to possibilities. Throwing on the drag and winding in until my line was taut, I struck hard four times.
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