A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



triumph in which he had had his share. From start to finish 

 the fight had occupied more than half an hour, and the distance 

 travelled was perhaps a quarter of a mile. This does not sound 

 very thrilling, but I never remember any other fish taking me 

 so far in the Add, though I have persisted in, and even exag- 

 gerated, the heresy of angling with small rod and light tackle. 

 The stream nowhere runs strong ; the banks are everywhere 

 clear ; and the only way to get real sport out of somewhat 

 undersized fish is to adopt the practice of duellist's and, in 

 a manner of speaking, give the challenged the choice of weapons. 

 As usual, I have been led into a digression. I began by 

 lamenting the fact that I had never been so lucky as to catch 

 a really big salmon. I pleaded, in mitigation of sentence, 

 that most of my fish have been taken in the Add, a river in 

 which the run of fish is small. And now, behold, I have 

 strayed from my theme to tell of my triumph over a compara- 

 tive giant. Yet I still bemoan my ill-luck. It is all very well 

 to derive what consolation I may from the reflection that fishing 

 is all a question of tackle, and that it is in reality as easy to 

 capture a monster with suitable appliances, that is to say big 

 rod, large winch and treble gut, with the help of a good boat 

 and a clever assistant, as to conquer much smaller fish alone, 

 with light rod and line and small flies. All of this may be true, 

 but it is not really much comfort, and I still yearn with unsatis- 

 fied longing for something that my steelyard will not weigh, 

 something to make 



" The boldest hold his breath 

 For a while . . ," 



74 



