Maurice Walsh - Nine Strings to your Bow (Maurice Walsh) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

“Good for you, Daniel!” cried Con. “I did not think you noticed that. When I was a boy in the open if I got a glimpse of a man a mile off in any sort of light—even moonlight—I would know him by his carriage.”

“And she did not, and the poacher fellow, Wells, is not a stranger to her. Moreover, Wells has a characteristic carriage including a limp, and Everitt recognized that the man he saw was limping.”

“You think the man Barbara saw was not Charley Wells?”

“Either that or these two young people are hiding something important about that man in brown. Find out.”

“Just like that! All right, guvnor! I can but fail. Do I gather that we are investigating Charley Wells?”

“Our investigation is already under way.”

“Gawd help Charley! Have you had a look-see at him?”

“In a business way—his business. He is a rodent of an inferior type, and that second-hand emporium of his is unique in its decay. By the way I have, more than once, heard you extol your prowess as an angler?”

“I kept you in salmon salad all last season.”

“Wells displayed some gaudy salmon flies, and I purchased a small present for you.”

Con suppressed an anguished yelp. “Good Lord! not second-hand flies out of a junk shop? You don’t buy even the finest fly for a real angler like me. You let me choose, and then you pay.”

“Doubtless you can change them for your own choice,” said Glover carelessly. “Here they are.”

He presented Con with an untidy paper twist. Con opened it, and shook half a score of resplendent salmon flies. He bent over them, and his eyes opened wide.

“Begobs! I withdraw my uncalled for recriminations.” He fingered through them. “Not a moth-eaten one among them. What did Charley soak you for these, friend Daniel?”

“They please your fastidiousness?”

“These are valuable flies, but I’ll catch you no fish on them this season. They are all of the big early-spring type—February and March, but I am not looking a gift horse in the mouth.” He fingered them again and suddenly stiffened. “Hello! Hello! what have we here?” He picked up one richly hackled and brightly tinselled fly, and then two more. He was excited. “A Popham, a Jack Scott, and a Silver Doctor, but not the standard dressing. You have got something here, Daniel.”

“Be explicit?”

“Do I need to be? These are home-dressed flies and beautifully tied, and not once in the water. The man who dressed these flies would recognize them beyond any possible shadow of doubt whatever. Is that explicit enough?”

“Moderately. If you go fishing with young Falkner he might choose you a suitable one.”

“Not to use in June, but I get you, Mr. Glover.” He restored the flies one by one to the paper twist, and put it carefully in his pocket. His hand was shaking a little. “We have started going places, Daniel, and Gawd help Charley Wells!”

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