"HOLA! FERDINAND!" I cried. "APPORTE LA NETTE, VITE! A BEAUTY!
HURRY UP!"

I thought it must be an hour while he was making his way over the
hill, through the underbrush, around the cliff. Again and again the
fish ran out my line almost to the last turn. A dozen times he
leaped from the water, shaking his silvery sides. Twice he tried to
cut the leader across a sunken ledge. But at last he was played
out, and came in quietly towards the point of the rock. At the same
moment Ferdinand appeared with the net.

Now, the use of the net is really the most difficult part of
angling. And Ferdinand is the best netsman in the Lake St. John
country. He never makes the mistake of trying to scoop a fish in
motion. He does not grope around with aimless, futile strokes as if
he were feeling for something in the dark. He does not entangle the
dropper-fly in the net and tear the tail-fly out of the fish's
mouth. He does not get excited.

He quietly sinks the net in the water, and waits until he can see
the fish distinctly, lying perfectly still and within reach. Then
he makes a swift movement, like that of a mower swinging the scythe,
takes the fish into the net head-first, and lands him without a
slip.

I felt sure that Ferdinand was going to do the trick in precisely
this way with my ouananiche. Just at the right instant he made one
quick, steady swing of the arms, and--the head of the net broke
clean off the handle and went floating away with the fish in it!