A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



drowned ; and besides, the storm churns up the yellow sand 

 from the bottom ; and no self-respecting trout will feed under 

 such conditions. So we pull back into shelter again. Danny 

 lights his pipe, looks round over the troubled waters and at 

 the ragged clouds overhead ; and by and by — 



" We'll try the point of Bownla, sir. We'll take the passage. 

 She'll float all right." 



I am a child in Danny's hands, so I agree. We turn the 

 boat to the east, and creep along the shore to where a jungle 

 of tall reeds and water-lilies — yclept " the passage " — divides 

 our bay from the next. The reeds are bending nearly double 

 as the gale rushes over them — we pole the boat over the shal- 

 lows ; and then our work is cut out for us, for this next bay 

 is some three miles wide. There is no more shelter, and there 

 are many rocks. After a strenuous struggle, sometimes with 

 both oars out on the lee side, we win through, somewhat 

 damper than when we started, and get our wind behind the 

 " comb," a curious serrated boulder that spouts and whistles. 

 And then says Danny : 



" Three flies, sir ! You do the fishin' till I get her past 

 the Table." 



Obediently I make it three flies, and my line flies out ; 

 while Danny, oar in hand astern, watches intently until we are 

 safely by a gigantic mass of submerged limestone covered 

 with seething breakers. Then, dropping the centreboard to 

 steady the boat, he starts fishing from his end. It was blowing 

 a gale ; but the wind blew steadily, now that we had cleared 

 the land, and though the waves were middling ugly, our boat 



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