A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



minded Norwegian boatmen and hunters, with a varied assort- 

 ment of whom I have fished and hunted through a long series 

 of years. But Ole improved on acquaintance, was a first-rate 

 boatman, knew the river to a yard of He and an inch of height, 

 and, later on, when combined achievement had created con- 

 fidence and brotherhood between us, even developed some 

 restrained enthusiasm. 



The first evening out I killed a 30-lb. salmon on a stretch 

 of water below the pool, Captain S., my partner, fishing the 

 lower water. But in the pool itself we had done nothing. Of 

 its possibilities I knew naught, and beyond a grumpy " meget 

 daarlig " (very bad) as we rowed over it, Ole vouchsafed no 

 remark as to its merits. In response to my query, he said its 

 height was wrong, and that was all I could get out of him. 



Next morning it was my turn on the pool again. We 

 " shifted " beats every afternoon. Wearied with many days 

 of continuous travel, and with no inkling of the sport in pros- 

 pect, I dawdled over an after-breakfast pipe in that glorious 

 northern air, admired the scenery, messed about with rods and 

 flies and casts, and only started to fish shortly before noon. 

 It was clear that Ole had a better opinion of the pool that morn- 

 ing. He appeared to row with more confidence and zeal. 

 The river had fallen half a foot, and was in better trim, it ap- 

 peared, for fish to take. So we started. Four hours or so 

 after, with aching back and shaking wrist, I was standing 

 on a shingle beach at the tail of the pool, playing my tenth 

 salmon — not counting several hooked and lost — a 24-pounder, 

 which Ole duly gaffed. A splendid pile of fresh-run, silver- 



96 



