226 LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES 



that Anglo-Norwegian band of sportsmen whose names 

 have been welcome household words in these parts for 

 many a year. I confess I like not this pool. To com- 

 mand it you have to wade out in a very rough shallow, 

 amongst bushel-sized boulders, each more slippery than 

 its fellow. The din of the foss is deafening ; the rush 

 of the water as you stand with uncertain foothold over 

 the deep dark swirl bewildering. 



Before leaving me my friend finishes his brief ex- 

 planation of the conditions with the application of the 

 whole. " Hold on " ; that is the ABC, the Alpha 

 and Omega of it. So mote it be. Still, saying it is 

 one thing, doing it another. My steel-centred Hardy 

 I know pretty well, and have no fear, though it is small 

 by comparison with the full-sized greenhearts to which 

 my attendant is accustomed, and I can see that he dis- 

 trusts it. Of the line and twisted gut collar I am 

 reasonably sure ; the hook, of course, is what it may 

 be. But I test the tackle all along, and fish down 

 the pool with a large Butcher. It does not take long, 

 with this express speed of water, and, I think rather to my 

 relief, nothing happens. Then I flounder out, sit on a 

 rock, fill a full pipe, and look through my flies. Here is a 

 Wilkinson that brought me a big fish on bonny Tweed last 

 autumn ; for auld lang syne I meet the blue-eyed gaffs- 

 man's shake of the head with a confident smile, and put 

 up the Kelso fly. I know the hang of the pool now, and 

 get back again to my precarious ledge, feeling much more 

 master of the position. 



What is that feeling you get in salmon fishing that 

 tells you so surely that the fly is doing its work well ? 

 Certain it is that such an inward assurance helps you 

 amazingly. Thus at the fourth cast there is a thrilling 

 pull under water, a momentary, but shrill, complaint 

 from the winch, and a quivering arched rod. " Hold 



