180 WANDERINGS AND MEMORIES 



deserved to come within the category of those 

 fortunate or misguided beings who spend all their 

 days on the river and hope to achieve the angler's 

 triumph. But we never know our luck. The 

 season of 1888 had nearly gone, and as the last day 

 of my vacation from Cambridge had arrived and 

 hardly a fish had come to my rod, my father gener- 

 ously gave me his beat on the upper water at Murthly, 

 and also came in the boat to have a chat. It was 

 one of those rare days when only big fish are rising. 

 In the first stream I killed two splendid salmon, 

 25 Ibs. and 27 Ibs., and in the next another of 25 Ibs. 

 Since fish of the first quality were rising, I wished 

 to try the quiet water in front of Miller's house, 

 where one of the monsters had been seen jumping 

 every day for the past week. There was little 

 chance of moving him, as my father had offered 

 him half the flies in the book during this time, but 

 there was just a possibility he might be in a taking 

 humour. This beat is probably the most difficult 

 to fish in the whole river, as the water is almost 

 still, and it is necessary to throw a very long line. 

 We had passed the best of it, and my father had 

 already told Miller to go in, and that we would 

 have lunch. But that last cast is often the fateful 

 one, and in this case it was so, for just as I 

 raised the rod to take in line there was a slow 

 boil, and I struck. A slight jerking of the line 

 after tightening suggested a small or badly hooked 

 fish. 



" I expect that is a grilse," remarked my father. 

 " Let us go ashore and kill him." 



It seemed as if the fish had heard such an insult 

 to his proportions, for with one mighty rush he was 



