A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



mid-stream, and soon my little rod was bent nearly double, 

 and I was battling with something which I soon perceived to 

 be quite out of the ordinary run of Add fish. There was no 

 rush at first, but a strong and determined progress downstream 

 that I was quite powerless to resist, though the bank on which 

 I stood was more than six feet above the water, so that, in spite 

 of the shortness of my rod, I had ample leverage. Although 

 I kept as much strain upon the fish as I dared, it bored heavily 

 downstream, never showing itself for a moment, and I followed 

 breathlessly, feeling more and more excited as it became ap- 

 parent that this was no foul-hooked grilse, but surely a giant 

 of the stream. Soon we had reached what is usually considered 

 the second Dunadd pool, where the water breaks white over a 

 row of boulders stretching right across to the flat shelving 

 rock under the opposite bank. On the south side the stream 

 is bounded by a rushy pasture reclaimed from the bog, and 

 the north side, on which I was standing, was arable land 

 planted that year, I remember, with a fairly heavy crop of 

 potatoes. It was here that I had my first sight of the fish as 

 it dashed through the white water of the short rapid, and I 

 breathed again as I realised that it was still on and that the line 

 had not caught against any of the projecting rocks that threat- 

 ened it. The pace quickened as the salmon dashed from mid- 

 stream right over to the far side, then turned and came at the 

 same pace straight towards me and slightly upstream, so that 

 I had some difficulty in keeping the line from slackening, 

 though I was able to supplement rapid winding of the reel 

 by a retreat through the potatoes. Once again the fish turned 



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