204 Sporting Sketches 



it close, got another pint of water, seized the head 

 and strove to hold it still. Never had I tackled so 

 strong a fish. It felt like a form of wet leather 

 crammed with powerful springs all working inde- 

 pendently, and I guessed how salmon are able to 

 leap high falls and stem raving currents. It seemed 

 the grip surely would squeeze the head from the 

 body, but still the tail threshed and the spray flew. 



At last I raised the fish, whereupon it gave a 

 sudden unholdable wriggle, rapped my nose with 

 its tail, then fell upon our carpet and began throw- 

 ing handsprings in all directions. It flopped under 

 W and beat upon his lower attire, every blow 

 leaving a welt of reddish slime. Then it rapped 

 three hard knocks with the wonderful caudal, de- 

 livered all the blood it had left upon our carpet, and 

 died! 



We stared in amazement for a moment, then W 

 opened and his speech was carelessly chosen. 



" Steady, old boy, these canoes are cranky. Let's 

 get on good solid rock and then air our views." 



Such a washing, and scraping, and fussing as 

 there was, before our late dainty craft and ourselves 

 again were presentable. Only the scenery and a 

 smoke smoothed our ruffled feelings. It was not 

 until we had shoved off for the pleasant homeward 

 way, and had cast burning glances at the dead thing, 

 that W ventured to ask : 



" Well, how do you like our salmon ? " 



" Canned ! And the next time a bombshell full 

 of beef blood fouls my troll, I'll cut the tackle ! 

 See?" 



