FISHING AT HOME AND ABROAD 

 where his gillie tells him salmon are in the habit of resting, and he runs 

 every bit as fair a chance of hooking a fish as the most accomplished master 

 of the game, though in handling a salmon after it is hooked an experienced 

 fisher will score many points over the tyro. Every fisherman's memory 

 must be stored with instances wherein luck — sheer luck — ^was the chief, if 

 not the sole, agent. I will recall two such instances in both of which my 

 friend, the late Mr F. Mason, was an actor. 



The scene of the first was laid on the Thurso. Most of those who are 

 acquainted with that weird river will agree with me in considering the 

 cream of it to consist in beat No. 7, the longest and at the same time the 

 liveliest, in an otherwise somewhat sluggish course. Beginning at the top 

 one likely fishing day in February, Mason, no mean performer, searched 

 every stream and pool down to the Rock — the lowest on the beat — ^without 

 feeling a touch. After eating his sandwich, he retraced his steps, fishing 

 every possible place with faultless diligence, but with no ponderable result. 

 By the time he reached the Sauce Pool again (the top cast on the beat) the 

 shades of the long Caithness night were gathering. Like all the rest, the 

 Sauce Pool was blank, and, being honestly tired, Mason laid his rod on the 

 bank, leaving the line streaming in the current, and told his gillie to wind 

 up. The gillie proceeded to obey, but found that the fly was fast, as he 

 supposed, in a submerged rock. Mason had turned homeward, but was 

 stopped by a shout — " Here a fish ! " A fifteen-pound springer, which 

 had ignored Mason's fly when artistically presented to him, had quietly 

 seized it as it dangled in the stream, and was safely landed to save a blank 

 day. 



The other incident, in which the luck turned savagely against poor 

 Mason, occurred in the opposite extremity of Scotland — ^the extreme 

 south-west — ^where I was a joint tenant with others of a river whence all 

 the nets had been removed. Mason having come to pay me a visit, every 

 good sportsman will understand how supremely anxious I felt that he 

 should have some sport. The month was April — ^the best of the whole year 

 for the Cree, especially for its tributary the Minnick (which, by the way, is 

 the larger river of the pair), the water was in prime order, and on the first 

 day it fell to our turn to fish my favourite beat for spring salmon — ^namely, 

 the lower portion of the Minnick. Take it all round I think that, except the 

 middle portion of the Kvina river in southern Norway, this part of the Min- 

 nick is the prettiest bit of fly casting I know. The water is very clear, without 

 a stain of peat, but it makes up for what might be a disadvantage to the 

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