74 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



enough, the result was not wasted, for the average 

 German cook does better conjuring with fresh- 

 water fish than the average English cook with the 

 choicest maree. Epicures at a London club would 

 shudder if offered a fillet of bream or roach, but 

 a sliced olive and a spoonful of Moselle work 

 miracles, and the pleasure I got out of those 

 deluded Warnow fishes was not all in the catching, 

 From this, how different the sport at Leghorn ! 

 Well I remember the first day, when I went forth 

 alone in a small boat and dropped anchor, accord- 

 ing to my boatman's instructions, about two 

 miles outside the Mole, baiting up a horsehair 

 line with a paste which my barber had compounded 

 out of fresh anchovy and arrowroot biscuits. 

 After half an hour's interval, during which I had 

 arrived at the conclusion that the historic interest 

 of the Mediterranean evidently exceeded its at- 

 tractions for the angler, I had a decided bite and 

 struck, only to become aware that something 

 extraordinary, unfishlike, was going on at the 

 other end. A little negotiation brought to view a 

 writhing octopus, a hideous creature that I had 

 never before seen alive outside of an aquarium. 

 As its arms lashed the water, visions of the struggle 

 with the pieuvre in Hugo's wonderful romance 

 flashed before me. But this was an insignificant 

 looking customer, and without another thought I 

 hauled him over the side. The next moment I 



