12 AN ANGLER'S LINES. 



stream just once more, it whispered, I know 

 not, but try I did. 



For one brief second my float rested on 

 the water, the next, with the suddenness of a 

 flash of lightning, it shot down out of sight. 

 So unexpected was it that I scarcely realised 

 what had happened, but the exultant cry of the 

 reel recalled me to myself and I drove the 

 hooks home. Then I knew that I had to try 

 conclusions with a good fish. With a mighty 

 rush, away he went up stream, whilst the line 

 raced through the rings and the reel shrieked 

 a protest. A pause, and back again he came, 

 for the reminder from the rod was not to his 

 liking. But the pace was too mad to be 

 sustained, and he sought relief in desperate 

 plunges that made the stout greenheart bend 

 as though it were the veriest wand. The 

 potential danger of that weed-bed opposite was 

 ever in my mind, and, when the fish resumed his 

 former tactics, I followed hastily along the 

 bank rather than surrender line that might lead 

 to complications in that quarter. And it was 



