A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



at home, but with a curious, jerky little pushing action of 

 o-horse power. It seemed a deadly enough rate to travel 

 at to eager fishermen approaching the goal of their dreams, 

 but it answered, and, with no other device available, we had to 

 be content. 



" How far Muchee Bawan now ? " was the oft-repeated 

 question. 



"Oh, quite close, Sahib. Look there ! " And the swimmer 

 would point to some spur of cliff in the far distance which 

 never seemed to get any nearer. " And, oh Wah ! the 

 number of fish that are there ! " 



This was encouraging anyway, and so we crawled gently 

 through the gorge, occasionally resting a moment for a leaking 

 mussak to be blown up, or delayed by the inevitable portage 

 whenever the current was too rapid. At last we came round 

 a bend, and a new sound reached our ears, the unmistakable 

 sound of falling water muffled by distance. 



" The voice of Muchee Bawan," said the swimmers. 

 " Hark, it is calling to the Sahibs ! Behold, then, we have 

 arrived, so all can rest and smoke ! " 



" What word is this, you evil ones ? " is our indignant 

 reply. " Do you not understand that now is all the more 

 reason for hurry ? Quick ! take us there at once, or you 

 may never smoke pipe again ! " 



With a cheery " Come along, brothers ! " they push on 

 once more, actually at some pace now, like horses going home 

 to stable. The roar deepens, and of a sudden we see the spray 

 from the falls. Louder still it gets, and then we order the 



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