A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



" No fear," he answers promptly. " That's a fish, and no 

 pinkeen. He won't die so easy." And Danny knows. 



As soon as I feel him, my fish is off once more. Another 

 ten yards of line flies out, and the spurt ends in another mag- 

 nificent leap into the air that brings my heart into my mouth. 

 But happily all is well. I feel him again, and we settle down 

 to a good straight fight. I try to bring him round to windward, 

 according to rule, but the fish is a heavy one, and the water 

 is too bad, so, after several cautious attempts, I abandon the 

 idea. As we drift up towards the centre of the lake, the waves 

 grow bigger, but we are clear of rocks, and that is a relief. 

 We are now in very deep water, so Danny brings home his 

 rod, lights up his pipe, and watches. I take in line carefully 

 when I can. My fish comes a little way towards me, and then 

 starts off again down wind. He has given up the Connaught 

 programme and heads for Clanrickards Castle, six miles away. 

 I have never had so interesting a fight, and against all rules ; 

 but then I have rarely if ever dapped in such a storm — and a 

 floss silk line takes some handling in a gale, with a jumpy boat 

 at one end and a game fish at the other. On this occasion 

 happily the line held good. Some four miles from where 

 he rose, after a struggle of close on forty minutes, my fish 

 lay on the bottom of the boat. 



" Between 5 and 6 — and nearer 6 than 5. It was a grand 

 fight, sir ! We did well to come out," was Danny's comment. 



The trout scaled very nearly 6 lb. 



One day, when deserted by Danny, who had to attend a 

 funeral, a fair compatriot took pity on me, and consented 



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