Read Online In the Grip of the Griffin: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 3 by J. Allan Dunn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: Detective/Hard-Boiled
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fished with flies only—the mere mention of bait was anathema. You matched the hatch, and some tied their own flies. It was lovely water, rapids and riffles, stretches clear as gin where the big fellows just dimpled the surface when they rose and you had to put a dry fly over them just once, and that perfectly; or they flipped at it with broad tails in disdain. There were cascades and pools and everywhere it was wide enough to be waded, to cast in comfort between the trees that thickly ranked it most of the way.
It was a fast stream, and, in places, a deep one. You had to be careful, even when you knew it, and guests were warned of the bad spots where a slip, with waders on, might mean death. But there were no records of casualties since the old Indian days, when the Mahikanders and the Katskils waylaid each other and the warwhoop drowned out the shrill whistle of the arrow, the rustle of the warriors from ambush, and the Wiequaskeck ran streaky pink at twilight.
The seven men gathered at the Lodge occupied themselves in various congenial ways. Some overhauled tackle already in perfect shape but always a joy to go over, to compare, exhibit, and discuss. Others swapped tales of earlier seasons, of prize fish. In mid-morning someone organized a friendly casting contest. There was no wind and a target was set out on the lawn, a circle of white cardboard at which they deftly cast their flies from various marked limits.
None of them was a duffer, some were more than merely expert. The best known, and best loved, man among them was Governor Thorpe. Ex-governor, for the time being, since party domination had swung in the State; but nevertheless always known as “Governor,” until the time when his friends and followers believed he would be called “President.”
A genial man, a just one, ever alive to the interests of his home State and its citizens. He was emphatically the People’s Choice in his own party, a man of education and family, but a thorough patriot. He had fought for water rights, for reforestation. A fine figure of a man, not far from sixty, he spoke with the conviction of an honest mind, he gave out the sense of power and dignity and humanity.
The governor threw a pretty fly. Time and time again his tapered cast of silkworm gut, chosen and tied himself, allied to the line of oiled silk, plaited and also skillfully tapered, sent the lure to touch the target.
But the wizard among them was a guest, sponsored by one of their eldest members, Derrick Blythe, himself debarred from being with them and his guest by a bad attack of asthma.
The guest’s name was Anthony Bostick. He was tall and gaunt with a black shock of upstanding hair and a wiry, trimmed mustache. He had caught more trout than any of them, so far. They had noted the absolute delicacy of his casting, the flirt of his wrist at the last second that let the lure down upon the surface with the exact imitation of a fly.
Now he took his honors modestly. He had been trained when he was a boy, he said, by his father’s gamekeeper, who taught him how to tie flies and how to cast them. Under persuasion, he gave an exhibition of unusual flycasting, including the famous Spey, or underhand, throw. His rod and his arm seemed to combine as one and when, time and time again, he flicked the target, they spontaneously applauded him.
They were still at it when the gong sounded. The midday meal was ready. It was laid in the trophy room. Plaster casts and stretched skins of fish were on the walls, with beautifully preserved birds, heads and antlers. A fire burned in the hearth, though the windows were open to let in the breath of Spring, balmy and promising, telling of rising sap and mating creatures. Trout did their breeding in the fall, but the other wild things were choosing lovers. Bird songs came in.
The table was laid, as usual, with the service plates face down and a clean napkin of red and white check atop each one. Linen, crockery, and silver were
It was a fast stream, and, in places, a deep one. You had to be careful, even when you knew it, and guests were warned of the bad spots where a slip, with waders on, might mean death. But there were no records of casualties since the old Indian days, when the Mahikanders and the Katskils waylaid each other and the warwhoop drowned out the shrill whistle of the arrow, the rustle of the warriors from ambush, and the Wiequaskeck ran streaky pink at twilight.
The seven men gathered at the Lodge occupied themselves in various congenial ways. Some overhauled tackle already in perfect shape but always a joy to go over, to compare, exhibit, and discuss. Others swapped tales of earlier seasons, of prize fish. In mid-morning someone organized a friendly casting contest. There was no wind and a target was set out on the lawn, a circle of white cardboard at which they deftly cast their flies from various marked limits.
None of them was a duffer, some were more than merely expert. The best known, and best loved, man among them was Governor Thorpe. Ex-governor, for the time being, since party domination had swung in the State; but nevertheless always known as “Governor,” until the time when his friends and followers believed he would be called “President.”
A genial man, a just one, ever alive to the interests of his home State and its citizens. He was emphatically the People’s Choice in his own party, a man of education and family, but a thorough patriot. He had fought for water rights, for reforestation. A fine figure of a man, not far from sixty, he spoke with the conviction of an honest mind, he gave out the sense of power and dignity and humanity.
The governor threw a pretty fly. Time and time again his tapered cast of silkworm gut, chosen and tied himself, allied to the line of oiled silk, plaited and also skillfully tapered, sent the lure to touch the target.
But the wizard among them was a guest, sponsored by one of their eldest members, Derrick Blythe, himself debarred from being with them and his guest by a bad attack of asthma.
The guest’s name was Anthony Bostick. He was tall and gaunt with a black shock of upstanding hair and a wiry, trimmed mustache. He had caught more trout than any of them, so far. They had noted the absolute delicacy of his casting, the flirt of his wrist at the last second that let the lure down upon the surface with the exact imitation of a fly.
Now he took his honors modestly. He had been trained when he was a boy, he said, by his father’s gamekeeper, who taught him how to tie flies and how to cast them. Under persuasion, he gave an exhibition of unusual flycasting, including the famous Spey, or underhand, throw. His rod and his arm seemed to combine as one and when, time and time again, he flicked the target, they spontaneously applauded him.
They were still at it when the gong sounded. The midday meal was ready. It was laid in the trophy room. Plaster casts and stretched skins of fish were on the walls, with beautifully preserved birds, heads and antlers. A fire burned in the hearth, though the windows were open to let in the breath of Spring, balmy and promising, telling of rising sap and mating creatures. Trout did their breeding in the fall, but the other wild things were choosing lovers. Bird songs came in.
The table was laid, as usual, with the service plates face down and a clean napkin of red and white check atop each one. Linen, crockery, and silver were
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