DISAPPOINTING DAYS. 99 



anxious and keen, and fairly pull the fly out of the fish's mouth. You 

 have pricked him, and you will hardly get another rise out of him. 

 Still there is a Will-o'-the-wisp kind of luck awaiting you, for near 

 the tail of the pool you get a fair head-and-tail rise, and are fast in a 

 good fish. He won't come up into your pool, but insists on making 

 down, through the broken water, into the pool^ below. Having guided 

 him to the best of your ability through the intricacies of the run, 

 you hasten to get ashore to get on terms with him, keeping your 

 rod point well up. More haste, less speed. The fact of your mental 

 balance being upset reacts upon your bodily balance, and you catch 

 the toe of your brogue on a submerged rock whilst working your way 

 ashore, and this time you go a real " howler." Thoroughly wet, with 

 a big chunk cut out of your wrist in your fall, you pick yourself up 

 to find that you have broken your favourite rod point. Disconsolately 

 you begin to reel up, the broken top meanwhile floating on your line 

 in the water. 



Still a gleam of luck : the fish is on, and, moreover, is complacently 

 careering round the head of the new pool. Thoroughly aroused, you 

 take the greatest care in getting on to terms with him again. Your 

 rod has now a somewhat quaint appearance, like a dismasted yacht. 

 Half the play of it is gone, and the top swirls about on the water in 

 a most disconcerting manner. With set teeth, you grimly determine 

 that, come what may, you will land that salmon. And you meet with 

 some measure of reward, for after a somewhat prolonged duel, he 

 begins to flop about on the surface, and to show unmistakable signs 

 of having had enough of it. 



With the greatest care you select the best spot for gaffing him, 

 and successfully get the gaff free from your shoulder. Your now 

 stiff and stodgy rod is, however, not best suited for bringing him in 

 to the gaff. It is some little time before you get anything, like a fair 

 chance. Then, with the rod in your left hand, your trusty gaff in 

 the right, he is led in, down stream, and he flops about. The hold, 

 alas, has been somewhat worn, and, just as you are making ready for 

 your stroke, the fish makes one more roll and surge and is free. A 

 wild scrape with the gaff only scores a scale or two from his side, 

 and, slowly gliding out of sight into the deep water, he disappears for 



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