A WOUNDED FISH. 61 



seemed to be making for the third and last fall. 

 Donald now stole up to me, and, as though he were 

 afraid of his own voice at such a crisis, in a low tone, 

 approaching almost to a whisper, entreated me to hold 

 him up the stream, and prevent his " ganging ow're the 

 fa' that gait," advice which I would only too gladly 

 have followed, had it rested with myself. But a fresh- 

 run salmon is not so easily guided, especially if he has 

 the start. 



I now, however, thought I saw symptoms of distress 

 in the fish, and began to cherish hopes of a successful 

 issue, when a sudden rush up the stream snapped the 

 top of my rod into two pieces. I heard Donald groan 

 as he said, "'Deed, sir, but ye're unco misfortunate 

 the day." However, in spite of this additional dis- 

 advantage, I persevered, and now the fish was evidently 

 relaxing his efforts. But still, slowly and certainly, he 

 was n earing the fall, and each short struggle lessened 

 the distance. Could I but hold him up the stream a 

 few minutes longer he would be mine ; but when he was 

 almost exhausted, and could have held out a very little 

 longer, I had the mortification to see him, by a kind of 

 tack in his course, work his way into the middle of the 

 current, just at its most rapid part, where it narrowed 

 before the cliff, taking a clear leap of twenty feet over 

 the cliff which barred its passage. Nothing I could do 

 could now secure him. My tackle was not stout enough 

 to resist the strength of the current, and there seemed 

 nothing for it but to give up all as lost. 



Just, however, at this juncture, Donald's presence 

 of mind and experience befriended me. Springing 

 forward, he took his stand on a rock projecting some 

 little way over the fall, and coolly balancing himself in 

 that dizzy position, put out the landing-net, and 

 catching my fish in the very act of descending, brought 



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