256 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



time, and, as a matter of fact, was at times so sent 

 down when the gates were first constructed. There 

 is a story of a hapless fisherman and his gillie clinging 

 for hours to the branches of a tree on the lower Sally 

 Island in the Erne, until a hasty message at length 

 reached the gatekeeper to cut off some of the water 

 he had let down in so prodigal and unexpected a 

 fashion, or run the risk, on behalf of his company, 

 of an action for manslaughter. 



I well remember that particular flood, for I happened 

 to be fishing Earl's throw at the time from the north 

 side, where it is necessary to wade into mid-river 

 along a ridge with deeper water on either hand. As 

 luck would have it, I had hooked a salmon about mid- 

 day, and had waded backwards to shore in order that 

 Terry, my gillie, might gaff the fish. It was Saturday, 

 and a flood was due, we knew, about three o'clock. 

 The fish was duly gaffed, and I was in the water 

 again on my way along the ridge, when from the 

 shore behind came an agonized cry : ' For God's 

 sake, yer honour, come out ! she's coming down.' 



I turned, and reached the shore, a few yards away, 

 with difficulty. In five minutes or less a raging flood, 

 10 feet deep, was sweeping over my late wading- 

 ground, and pouring in whirling rapids down to the 

 deep Nova Scotia pool below. Had I been fairly out 

 on the throw, no power on earth could have saved 

 me. The company's official had raised three gates 

 two hours before the stated hour, and then gone 

 calmly to his lunch. 



Some kind of a working compromise between 

 fishery-owners and land-reclaimers has now been 

 arrived at, and during the fishing season the gates 

 are kept fairly steady. But the mechanical power 



