The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
being the weightiest we caught—but infinitely 
sporting fish, which would rise at any small 
silver-bodied fly, such as a Dusty Miller, Wilkin- 
son, or silver-grey. Some sort of a fish would 
rise at every cast until the sport became monoto- 
nous. 
I had as gillie one of the crew of the captain’s 
galley, and he had never previously gaffed a 
fish, but was keen as mustard to do his best. 
The first try was a hideous failure—he missed 
the salmon and struck a lump of lava instead, 
with the result that the point of the gaff was 
turned and bent. However, it was not long 
before the “‘ handy man”’ learned his job, and 
very soon I had a gillie quick as lightning, who 
clipped the fish in great style. 
On one day we had the fish piled up in three 
heaps at various parts of the river banks, and 
when the time came to stop, the question was how 
to move the plunder to the fishing-hut a mile 
away. The ‘“‘ handy man” to the rescue! He 
put his oilskin coat on the ground and filled it 
with shining fish, tying them up with a cord, 
and packed the trouser legs of my oilskins after — 
adroitly fastening their ends. It took two trips 
each before we had all the bag brought in. A 
great day’s sport, and an experience worth 
having, although nothing like so alluring as the 
uncertainty attached to ordinary salmon fishing, 
when you may kill one or more fish in a hard 
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