TACTICAL 177 



I had just elaborated a nice dressing of the small darkish 

 olive that one gets at this time of year. It was tied with 

 a body of pale blue heron herl, dyed a greenish olive, 

 bound down with a rib of fine gold wire, and otherwise 

 was unremarkable enough. For the details see p. no. 

 The object of my attentions was rising at intervals 

 alongside the bank, but never twice in quite the same 

 place, and his range brought him at times so near me 

 that I could not have lifted my little nine-footer without 

 scaring him, and it was only when he was at the top 

 of his beat that I dared swing my line to him. Mean- 

 while I crouched low, as much hidden by a tussock as 

 possible, and keeping the willow as a background for my 

 willow-coloured fishing suit. Presently he was taking a 

 fly close to another tussock not ten yards up above me 

 (about his top limit). It happened to be my fly, and I 

 signified the same in the usual manner by raising my hand. 

 The little rod bowed beautifully in acknowledging the 

 compliment to my fly dressing, and the line began to cut 

 swiftly down-stream. Another second and the trout would 

 have been below me, below the cross-drain, safe perhaps in a 

 bunch of heavy weed, and it would only be a question of how 

 much of my cast I should save. Instinctively I plunged back- 

 wards into the marsh, bending my rod almost horizontally 

 across my body as I faced upstream, and bringing to bear 

 on the fish's mouth every ounce of cross-stream strain I 

 could. The effect was instantaneous. He turned and 

 plunged desperately through the weeds upstream, and I 

 let him go, following, however, closely, and keeping a line 

 so short that every attempt to turn down again was met 

 by instantaneous retreat into the marsh with rod held low 

 and side-strain reapplied. In this way I beat him up- 

 stream until I had him almost to the place where I ex- 

 pected to find my next fish, and then I decided that there 



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