244 THE WAY OF A TROUT WITH A FLY 



On the way back to the corner where I hooked him I 

 observed a rise of a big grayling, and, more in wantonness 

 than from any desire to catch him, I put the fly over him. 

 He came up at once, and I had him plunging and twisting 

 at the end of my line, and led him down-stream plainly 

 visible — a heavy grayling, for that water, of fully two 

 pounds — and then, just as I began to get ready the net, the 

 hook came away again. 



I should have looked at my hook when I lost the big 

 trout. When I did so now my two losses were explained. 

 The hook was of soft metal and had pulled out, not 

 straight, but enough to render my hold most insecure. 



Meanwhile the dusk had deepened apace. The even- 

 ing rise wore out rapidly, and the only two fish I found 

 rising had to be chucked to from a bank where I had the 

 red glow of expiring sunset behind me, and neither 

 materialized. Bitterly disappointed, I made my way 

 slowly up to the hut where I was to meet my friend, and 

 I did not find a riser till just below the point of meeting. 

 The trout placed himself nicely enough as I came up, 

 and I offered him the new fly three or four times. He took 

 it presently, and was gone with a slash. This time I looked 

 at the hook and found it all right. 



My friend was not at the hut, and so I strolled a yard 

 or two above it to see if a certain persistent riser, even more 

 ruse and experienced than the first I had attacked, would 

 give me a final chance. Yes, he was still up, and the first 

 cast landed the fly absolutely right. I tightened, felt his 

 rush, and then again the sickening slackness. Sadly I began 

 to wind in, when, to my astonishment and delight, I found 

 he was on and had merely run down. Directly the line 

 tightened he was off upstream, and led me battling for a 

 hundred yards along the bank before I could turn him. 

 To say sooth I was not anxious to do so too soon, for below 



