A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



and the weather was normal. We had simply struck an off- 

 day on which not a fish could be tempted, and the occasion 

 was at once sadly memorable for the most complete blank 

 I ever scored, but also gloriously associated with what is, 

 perhaps, the reddest-letter day in all my fishing diaries. It 

 fell out in this way. We — that is to say, my good CO. and 

 myself — had fished three whole days with no result whatever. 

 On the evening of the last day, still doggedly trying every 

 pool we came to, we reached camp, and it was small blame 

 to the CO. that, having had enough of it, he fell a victim to 

 the lure of tea. Just then, as luck would have it, I noticed 

 some small gulls screaming excitedly over a pool that I knew 

 well some way downstream. It had never been a good pool, 

 and my hopes were not very high ; but the birds seemed to 

 mean small fry, and the small fry might mean big fish. Any- 

 how, there were still two clear hours of daylight, and this was 

 our last day, so I resisted the call of tea and set out for the 

 pool. What a sight met my eyes ! The water was simply 

 alive with fish, their backs now and then appearing out of 

 water as they dashed after the fry, for all the world like a school 

 of miniature porpoises. So I got to work at once, and the 

 result recalled that first memory of Muchee Bawan. As soon 

 as the spoon touched the water, two or three mahseer would 

 rush for it at once, the best fish generally winning. I was 

 nervous of the result, for it was clearly a case of fishing against 

 time, and I had with me only the light rod and gear. Fish 

 after fish was landed without mishap, and not one of them 

 disgraced its order by omitting that first grand rush and the 



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