96 PIKE AND OTHER COARSE FISH. 



the left hand, the spinner by this means keeping, as it were, 

 'touch ' of it, and being able to check it if he sees it is getting 

 into danger. 



The sort of thing that occurs when this precaution is not 

 taken, is graphically described by Mr. H. B. Bromhead in a 

 recent number of a sporting periodical. 



There is something very artistic in being able to throw the 

 spinning-flight properly. If the river is (innavigable, and old tree- 

 trunks and reed-beds jut out from either bank every few yards, 

 then the tyro or novice will come to grief before he has made many 

 casts. He will speedily become ' hung up ; ' and if the flight is 

 wound firmly round a willow branch, or deeply embedded in a 

 patch of half-rotten reeds, then 'something must go.' Possibly he 

 will put the strain on ; but his hooks are highly tempered, and his 

 gimp trace strong enough to tow a barge. At last a break occurs. 

 The released line flies back into his face, and he hopes everything 

 has come away clear. He is disappointed ; for on that stout branch 

 on the opposite side of the river, still swaying backwards and for- 

 wards, remain his flight, trace, leads, and perhaps two or three 

 yards of line. But see ; how does the practical spinner go to work ? 

 No bungling here, no erratic throws, no catching branches, no 

 hooking into reeds, or other floating debris. The bait, properly 

 leaded, shoots evenly and swiftly to the desired haven like an arrow 

 from the bow. Right across the river, twenty-live yards if an inch, 

 and it falls right under the drooping boughs of an old willow, in a 

 quiet eddy caused by a small bay in the bank-line. With but little 

 splash the bait drops into the water, and after sinking a foot or two 

 is drawn evenly across the river. It is a pikey bit of water, a fringe 

 of waving, rotting, sepia-tinted reeds bordering the bay. If any 

 kind of the species Esox Indus possessed an especial retreat this is 

 the one. Is master pike at home to-day? I think he is. A swirl 

 in the water, a sudden resistance on the line, a gleam of light colour 

 in the dark green depths of the river flowing smoothly along, as a 

 mighty fish seizes the bait, and endeavours to return to his lair to 

 munch his captive at his leisure. Not so fast, my friend. That 

 lofoot of greenheart and lanccwood is struck upwards smartly, the 

 line quivers like an arrow just embedded in the target, and a right 

 royal battle has commenced. Gamely the fish struggles, vainly 

 endeavouring to once more take up his quarters in those willow 

 roots which for months past have been his home, a place carefully 



