90 A RIVER OF NORWAY 



and see at once that fish are there. Standing 

 well back I drop a prawn into the edge of 

 the stream and it circles slowly round into the 

 backwater where they are lying. Anders, flat 

 on his stomach, with only his head projecting 

 over the edge, reports that four fish run at 

 it. One takes it. I strike and it is well 

 hooked, a fish of about 18 Ib. It makes two 

 mad rushes into the stream above, and is 

 hauled back; then once out into the foaming 

 torrent, and in a second is swept over the Fos, 

 my line coming back to me without the prawn 

 and half the trace. It is doubtful whether 

 any tackle will hold a fish in this water, and 

 if it does, how the fish is to be gaffed is a 

 problem. But after resting for ten minutes, 

 and putting up an extra stout trace I try 

 again. As the prawn swings through the 

 backwater, Anders laughs a weird hysterical 

 laugh, and another fish seizes the bait. This 

 time it is a smaller fish, perhaps about 12 Ib., 

 and I manage to hold him in the smoother 

 water. But after a minute he dashes out 

 towards the stream, and jumping frees himself. 

 This is enough. There is something fascinat- 

 ingly piratical about this proceeding, but it is 



