Dibbing with the Dry-fly 71 



for I dared not give him more line. I kept 

 out of sight, and put as much strain on the 

 line as I deemed possible without a break- 

 age. The cast, though fine, was strong, 

 and the fly well tested both as to hook and 

 gut. Yet, with even these points in my 

 favour, I felt with a cruel pang that I had 

 met my master. The light was fast waning, 

 and it would soon be impossible to see the 

 line amidst the leaves and the snags. For 

 fully five minutes after one of his fiercest 

 rushes the fish swam round and round the 

 backwater. I began to entertain hopes. But 

 suddenly he changed tactics without a 

 moment's notice, dashing right out of the 

 pool into the open stream with irresistible 

 strength. My line became entangled, as did 

 the top of my rod, in the fallen branch, and 

 the fight was over. Then a darkness came 

 upon my spirit, deeper than the gloom which 

 night with lavish hand was dealing out to 

 Nature. One despairing glance at the scene 

 of that stern struggle, and I gathered up 

 landing-net and bag and hastily departed. It 



