The heart is black that can plot mischief to this excellent creature. How many years of joyous dun-devouring life are before him? Five—ten—twenty? I see him, a portly ten-pounder, living for ever, for ever stemming this crystal stream with fins that grow broader and stronger, the intoxicating gold and green, vermilion, brown, and blue of his scales growing deeper, richer, more and more splendid. "No," says Argument, "not for ever. And—ultimately? An old, lean, blind, diseased fish, dying by inches. Have him out?" And I have him out.
But while I am doing it, should I work him into still water, can I, while he swims slowly round and round, always in sight, wholly persuade myself that he feels no pain. I grant his horny mouth. But is fear no pain? And does this fish feel no fear? Fear glares from his eyes. He is stricken with it. And against fear he fights, as well as against gut and split cane. I have given this fish seven minutes of utter terror. It is not a comforting thought. I put it away from me.
And now he is in the net. Now he lies at my feet, staring a dull, foolish reproach at me. At this point I have to be very quick if I mean to take that trout home with me. He lies in my hand, passive, dignified, demeaning himself by no futile wriggles. He owns the Lord of Creation. Whang!
