170 AN IRISH SALMON-EIVER 



head the time I walked home wid you from the chapel ; 

 there was an iligant yulla feather in that, I mind.' 



' Musha, hut it 's this man is not blate/ mocked Phoebe, 

 ' the way he 'd take the feather from my Sunday hat.' 



' Ah, be aisy now,' pleaded Tim. ' It '11 niver be known 

 upon it what I 'd take, no more than a tinkan o' wather 

 out o' the well.' 



Tim had an easy victory. If he had asked for half of 

 Phoebe's modest wardrobe, she would have sacrificed it 

 joyfully for her lad's happiness ; and well the rogue knew 

 it. Indeed, the few yellow strands he plucked did not 

 appreciably diminish the glories of Phoebe's gala hat ; but 

 the silk was not forthcoming. As he stood meditating, 

 the problem solved itself. His eye fell on the fringe of 

 Phoebe's hood, which was of pink worsted. To detach a 

 few threads of this, to lap it on a large bait-hook with 

 waxed thread, and to whip on the top the yellow feather 

 to serve as wings, was quick work for his practised fingers. 

 No doubt he did not omit to signify gratitude to his 

 benefactress in a way agreeable to her feelings, for there 

 was a bewitching colour in her cheeks as she watched him 

 striding back in the direction of Dawson's Cradle a colour 

 not to be accounted for entirely by the keen February 

 air. 



By good luck no other fisher had come that way during 

 Tim's absence from the river, and Tim lost no time in 

 presenting his handiwork to the big salmon. The suspense 

 was not prolonged. No sooner did the spoils of Phoebe's 

 toilette pass over the spot where Tim had marked the 

 monster rise, than the line stopped short as if hitched 

 upon a rock. Tim raised the rod smartly, and was 'in 

 him.' To cut a long story short, twenty minutes later he 



