A CANADIAN RIVER 133 



lay half -buried at the bottom in the silt. We 

 came to the conclusion that I was now fast, 

 not in the fish but in the rubbish, and we set 

 to work to get loose, and if possible, to save 

 the line and cast. After probing the depths 

 with his gaff, Barter (who was then my 

 attendant) at last got hold of the right 

 bough, and the line suddenly became slack. 

 I proceeded to reel up with a sad heart, when 

 suddenly to my amazement I felt a quiver 

 of life, and realized that my fish was still 

 there. The rough usage to which he had 

 been subjected had taken all the vice out of 

 him. He came in like a lamb, and I felt 

 that I could tow him wherever I liked. 

 There was a little back-water a few yards 

 off, with a beautiful gravelly slope on one 

 side — an ideal landing-place. I think I 

 could have beached my fish unaided. I got 

 out of the canoe and drew him gently and 

 steadily into the shoal water. He was vir- 

 tually mine. But at this moment Barter 

 was seized by an access of dementia: it was 

 the call of the wild, the instinct of the old 



