54 DAYS STOLEN FOR SPORT 



headed, sunken pile. I had put my rod and tackle 

 together some little distance off, for the vibrations 

 of one's footsteps are more alarming to the fish 

 than sound ; so imagine I have crept with watchful 

 step and softest tread to make my cast across the 

 seething water. In answer to it a fish rose. I 

 saw his huge spotted sides as he turned twice to 

 seize my lure, but I did not get him. There re- 

 mained the satisfaction that I had not snatched 

 with hasty hope that he had the bait : so 

 probably I had not alarmed him. Evidently not, 

 for after a pause I cast again and as I watched the 

 silver-coated lure coming across the churning water 

 a dark form hid it for a moment and then the 

 burnished side of a turning trout flashed a light 

 that enabled me to see the size of the fish as it 

 dived and tugged the line. Yes, I had the 

 monster on, for a turn of my wrist and his deep 

 dive caused him to feel the hook and rush in 

 temper, with shaking head, twice round the pool, 

 and then fling himself high above the water, so 

 near me that I saw his form in detail, and I had 

 more anxiety and desire to have him than I shall 

 feel for my next dozen uncraftily-wild, rushing 

 salmon. Hook a salmon, and the odds are eight 

 to one the fish is yours, but the odds are the other 

 way when you have hooked a trout on fine tackle 

 in one of the old weir-pools of the Upper Thames. 

 There is an apron to which the fish may come and 

 cut the line upon its edge. There are piles studded 

 here and there round which he has loved to swim, 

 feeling secure while near them. Still I have him 

 on, and he is much less violent than at first, and, 

 with the exception of his once being round a pile 



