270 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



astern. Suddenly I feel a twitch and hear a splash, 

 and turning around find I am fast to a fish, the noblest 

 Roman of that day's struggle. Once, twice, thrice he 

 shows himself in all his fair proportions. 



" Two pounds and a half, if an ounce," says Frank. 



I get down on my knees in the water of the cranky 

 boat, as the reel sings the merriest tune that ever 

 delighted the ear of an angler. Two or three mad 

 dashes, and I think the trout is tiring. I reel him 

 slowly in, but the sight of the boat gives him new life 

 and he darts under it in spite of my efforts to swing 

 him around the stern. The rod tip is passed clear of 

 the boat and the fight continues. 



Exhausted ? The fight is only begun. 



The unwieldy boat is far too slow to follow the fish, 

 and I see my line growing rapidly less on my reel with 

 no sign of weakness on the part of the fish. I am com- 

 pelled to advance the butt of the rod and the tip droops 

 nearer and, hesitatingly, still nearer to it, as though 

 the tip would whisperingly confess that the strain is 

 greater than it can bear, while the stout nature of the 

 wood rebels at the confession. Involuntarily I raise 

 myself by a muscular action as though the cords and 

 sinews of my body could relieve the pressure on the 

 lancewood and save the rod. 



"You'll smash your pole!" is the warning Frank 

 utters. 



I care not now, for the fight has been a glorious one, 

 but the "pole" survives to fight many another fight ; 



