254 AN ANGLER AT LARGE 



cane, sixty yards of line, and stout gut. The 

 sea-stream ran out furiously, and the fish came 

 bravely. One, two, three, I rose and missed ; 

 four, I hooked. He jumped and was off. Five, 

 I landed ; 2 \ Ib. Six, I hooked, played, and lost. 

 Seven, I landed ; 2^ Ib. Eight and nine, I rose. 

 The casting was dead into the eye of a bright 

 sun ; there was no breath of wind, and 1 sweated 

 and swore and had the best time of my life. 

 For these were my first sea-trout. Mac A lister 

 sat on the rocks, smoked, and told me his opinion 

 of my angling. But I cared very little. The 

 discovery was made, and we knew when to tackle 

 the sea-stream in future. 



On the morrow MacAlister was set at them 

 and I went down to receive instruction. Mac- 

 Alister took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, lit 

 a vast pipe, and entered the water. One, two, 

 three, he rose, hooking and losing one of them. 

 Four he landed ; 2f Ib. Five ran out thirty yards 

 of line making, apparently, for Greenland, across 

 the Arctic Sea. But MacAlister managed to turn 

 him, and there they were, fish tugging away 

 below MacAlister, MacAlister holding on for dear 

 life, and biting into his pipe-stem deeper and 

 deeper every moment. The trout had never 

 shown himself (and I may add, never did show 

 himself ) and this circumstance has led MacAlister, 



