304 AN OPEN CREEL 



fight was a slow and orderly affair, the unseen foe 

 circling round and round the pool, or boring up under 

 the weir-sill in a fashion ominous for the fine trace. 

 Presently, however, its mood changed, and it suddenly 

 shot straight out of the water, once, twice, and yet 

 again, proclaiming its race without possibility of 

 mistake. Then it bolted straight off downstream, 

 tearing line off the reel like a salmon, and making for 

 the danger zone, an assemblage of piles supporting 

 a wooden bridge and hut built almost across the 

 river. 



The trout was under the bridge before decision was 

 possible, but then it was evident that he must be 

 stopped at all costs. If the ridiculously fine trace 

 stood the strain, well and good ; if not but the fish 

 would be lost in any case. The trace did its duty, and 

 after some seconds of agonizing suspense the trout 

 turned, and came slowly upstream once more, to 

 resume the heavy boring with which the fight began. 

 The strain was now beginning to tell, and though 

 there was still another leap and another formidable 

 rush left in the fish, the imminent danger was over, 

 and at last the keeper's big, long-handled net, left by a 

 fortunate miracle leaning against the weir-bridge, was 

 dipped into the water and the battle was won. A very 

 beautiful trout it was, too plump, short, small-headed, 

 and silvery. Indeed, it was so well proportioned that 

 it was estimated at far below its real weight, which on 

 the keeper's scales proved to be within two ounces of 

 eight pounds. The journey back to hot London was 

 Joyful, despite the extra burden of a long market- 

 basket, or perhaps because of it. An angler does not 



