A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



Not a fish would move after the sun was once on the water, 

 so the sport had to be short and sharp, and it was fun of the 

 best while it lasted, for I never once remember drawing blank. 

 A few lumps of dough were thrown into the pool on arrival, 

 just to attract and locate the fish, after which came the cast, 

 a rush from all directions, and a fish on the rod, its size depend- 

 ing on which first got to the bait. The madness of the first 

 rush was particularly noticeable here, probably owing to the 

 eagerness of the fish to make good its prize in presence of so 

 much competition. Half a dozen would be the usual morn- 

 ing's take, and I was able to get back in good time to provide 

 fresh fish for the mess breakfast. True, these fish never ex- 

 ceeded a weight of from one to five pounds, but even that was 

 satisfactory when contrasted with my previous experience of 

 nothing but small trout at home. In the more sophisticated 

 moods of after years, such sport would have seemed too trivial 

 to be thought of, but in those early days it was very welcome. 

 It was about that period that there befel me one of those 

 incidents which the fisherman never forgets. I was not actu- 

 ally on a fishing trip, but had been told by an old hand that at 

 a certain spot on the marching road to Cashmere, whither I 

 was bound after ibex, a small stream joined the Jhelum River, 

 and that if I were to try a cast or two at the junction, I might 

 reasonably look forward to hooking something enormous. 

 The rod was therefore taken along and the expert's instructions 

 obeyed to the letter. A frog was to be the lure on this occasion, 

 and it was, indeed, about the only sort of bait appropriate to 

 this season of dirty flood water, though I never again fell thus 



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