162 HAPPY HUNTING-GBOUNDS 



hooked green fly when I had waded about a third of 

 the way down the pool, and the whole of my thirty 

 yards of line, and a goodly proportion of the backing 

 as well, was off the reel in a moment. I put on all 

 the strain the little red and fine tackle would bear, 

 and followed as quickly as I could, edging towards the 

 bank, which was steep and covered with thick bushes, 

 but the fish soon had put quite 150 yards between 

 us, and continued to dash down stream as if nothing 

 would stop him. It looked as if I should not be 

 able to prevent his getting over the rapids at the 

 bottom, but at last I began to get some control over 

 him and managed to recover fifty yards of backing. 

 By this time it was clear that he was exceptionally 

 heavy, and although I always prefer to land my own 

 fish when possible, I was not ashamed to shout for 

 assistance. Gunder, who was rowing the boat near 

 the top of the pool, brought it to the side, landed, and 

 took my gaff. The fish caught sight of him, and made 

 another violent rush which brought him to the very 

 edge of the foss. It was his last effort. I just suc- 

 ceeded in turning him, and he came to the top of the 

 water and floated almost motionless upon his side. It 

 was quite twenty minutes from the time he was 

 hooked when Gunder got the gaff into him, and de- 

 posited him gasping on the stones, a beautiful silvery 

 fellow just fresh from the sea. Although it was not 

 by any means a warm evening, the perspiration was 

 streaming down my face by the time the struggle was 

 over. 



One fight with a fish is very like another, at least 

 upon paper, so I will spare further details of that 

 grand night's sport. It became very dark before we 



