186 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



each time Cox drops the sculls for the landing 

 net ; and away now to the rough ground, just 

 below the bridge, where, undisturbed by the sal- 

 mon-nets, the big bass lie in wait for the shoals 

 of brit that come, reckless of their doom, on the 

 rising tide. 



The sun is well up over Bitton now, its rays, 

 which make themselves felt, lighting up the pictur- 

 esque hamlet of Shaldon, which sends stray 

 wreaths of smoke curling up against the green 

 background of hill beside which it nestles. An 

 early bicycle glides across the bridge, but the 

 majority of folks rise late in the West, for where 

 Nature is loveliest, there man is least ambitious. 



As we pass the topmost ships, with only a couple 

 of yachts between us and the bridge, the dripping 

 bait-box is hauled inside the boat, and the largest 

 sand-eels are picked out from the wriggling mass, 

 for big bass like big fare, and if the giants are to 

 be tempted, we must offer them the best we have. 

 Instead of trailing the baits, as I did for the smaller 

 game below, I now pay it out, little by little, an 

 inch or two of line being pulled off the reel at the 

 time. This I go on doing mechanically, while 

 Cox just dips the paddles so as to keep the boat 

 back ever so little, that the line may run out 

 straight as a wire. Past the tennis-courts we go, 

 looking through the arches of the bridge at the 

 purple line of the tors on Dartmoor, and now the 



