A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



rough — through the rocky gorge, and with the nine-foot cane 

 rod I could just manage to switch out the fly half-way across 

 the comparatively narrow throw. I proceeded to fish the said 

 stream with that feeling of confidence occasionally experienced, 

 that sooner or later a fish would come. And, sure enough, 

 three parts down the stream there was a draw on the line. 

 I raised my hand, and found myself fast in something fairly 

 heavy. The situation was sufficiently exciting. It was the 

 first salmon I had hooked that year. The bank was rocky 

 and steep ; there was no convenient place to land a good 

 fish. I had no gaff. And, lastly, the tackle was old ; the little 

 nine-foot rod was bent into a hoop, and there were only thirty 

 feet of trout-line on a small reel. There was also a very prac- 

 tical consideration, above all these things, firmly fixed in my 

 mind. My supper partly depended on what was going to 

 happen during the next fifteen or twenty minutes. 



But the Fates were kind, and the fish, a clean 14-pounder, 

 was considerate and obliging. He sailed conveniently up 

 and down the stream, but did not try to run out of it. He 

 neither jumped too violently nor sulked beneath any of the 

 numerous rocks in the bed of the river. And, finally, having 

 kindly allowed me to put a string glove on one hand, he 

 eventually consented, after twenty doubtful minutes, to be 

 led into a small rocky bay just above the brink of the pool, 

 and to lie there for five thrilling seconds until I grasped his 

 tail in the gloved hand, heaved him up on the slippery rock 

 on which I stood, and incontinently fell on him and slew him. 

 So my supper was secured ; and as I walked the three miles 



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