English Original
Then the pounding came from inside the truck, as if a tire iron was beating at the sides of the vehicle. It was not a timid banging, not a minor signal. Bang! Bang! it came, and Bang! again. And the voice of authority from some place in space: "I'm not sitting here the livelong day whilst you boys gab away." A toothless meshing came in his words, like Walter Brennan at work in the jail in Rio Bravo.
"Comin', pa," one of them said, the most orderly one, the one with the old scout sash riding him like a bandoleer.
They pulled open the back doors of the van, swung them wide, to show His Venerable Self, ageless, white-bearded, felt hat too loaded with an arsenal of flies, sitting on a white wicker rocker with a rope holding him to a piece of vertical angle iron, the crude kind that could have been on early subways or trolley cars. Across his lap he held three delicate fly rods, old as him, thin, bamboo in color, probably too slight for a lake's three-pounder. But on the Pine River, upstream or downstream, under alders choking some parts of the river's flow, at a significant pool where side streams merge and phantom trout hang out their eternal promise, most elegant, fingertip elegant.
"Oh, boy," Eddie said at an aside, "there's the boss man, and look at those tools." Admiration leaked from his voice.
Rods were taken from the caring hands, the rope untied, and His Venerable Self, white wicker rocker and all, was lifted from the truck and set by our campfire. I was willing to bet that my sister Pat, the dealer in antiques, would scoop up that rocker if given the slightest chance. The old one looked about the campsite, noted clothes drying from a previous day's rain, order of equipment and supplies aligned the way we always kept them, the canvas of our tent taut and true in its expanse, our fishing rods off the ground and placed atop the flyleaf so as not to tempt raccoons with smelly cork handles, no garbage in sight. He nodded.
We had passed muster.
"You the ones leave it cleaner than you find it ever' year. We knowed sunthin' 'bout you. Never disturbed you afore. But we share the good spots." He looked closely at Brother Bentley, nodded a kind of recognition. "Your daddy ever fish here, son?"
中文翻译
接着，敲击声从卡车内部传来，仿佛一根轮胎撬棍在猛击车厢。那不是怯懦的敲打，也不是细微的信号。砰！砰！它来了，又是砰的一声。一个来自某处、带着权威的声音响起：“我可不会坐在这儿一整天，听你们几个小子闲聊。”他的话语里带着一种无牙的含糊，就像沃尔特·布伦南在《赤胆屠龙》或类似电影里在监狱干活时的腔调。
“来了，爸，”其中一人说道，他是最守规矩的那个，那条旧童子军绶带像子弹带一样斜挎在他身上。
他们拉开货车的后门，敞开着，露出了那位可敬的长者本人——看不出年纪，白胡子，毡帽上别满了一大堆假蝇饵。他坐在一把白色柳条摇椅上，用一根绳子把自己固定在一根垂直的角铁上，那种粗糙的角铁可能用在早期的地铁或有轨电车上。他膝上横放着三根精致的飞钓竿，和他一样古老，纤细，呈竹色，对于湖里三磅重的鱼来说可能太轻了。但在松河上，无论上游还是下游，在桤木丛堵塞部分河道的地方，在一个支流汇合、幽灵般的鳟鱼永远潜伏着承诺的重要水潭边，它们却是最优雅的，指尖般的优雅。
“哦，天哪，”埃迪在一旁说道，“老大来了，看看那些家伙。”钦佩之情从他的声音中流露出来。
钓竿被从那双呵护的手中接过，绳子被解开，那位可敬的长者，连同白色柳条摇椅一起，被从卡车上抬下来，安置在我们的篝火旁。我敢打赌，我那个做古董商的妹妹帕特，只要有一丁点机会，就会抢购那把摇椅。老人环视了一下营地，注意到前一天下雨后晾着的衣服，装备和补给品排列得井然有序，一如我们一贯的做法，帐篷的帆布绷紧平整，我们的钓竿离地放置，放在防潮布上，以免用有气味的软木把手引诱浣熊，视线内没有垃圾。他点了点头。
我们通过了检验。
“你们就是那些每年都把这里弄得比来时更干净的人。我们知道一些关于你们的事。以前从没打扰过你们。但我们分享好钓点。”他仔细看了看本特利兄弟，点头表示一种认可。“你爸爸以前在这儿钓过鱼吗，孩子？”