THE NAMELESS CREEK. 73 



smash your rod or stop 'em ! " decided the matter. 

 Gripping the extreme butt with one hand, and 

 clutching the reel with the other, I held them 

 steadily out, toward the oncoming fish. " Good 

 by, old rod," I mentally exclaimed, as I saw 

 the three gleaming forms dash under the boat ; 

 "stanch as you are, you can't stand that." An 

 instant, and the pressure eame upon the reel. I 

 gripped it tightly, not giving an inch. The pliant 

 rod doubled itself up under the strain, until the 

 poiat of the tip was stretched a foot below the 

 hand which grasped the butt, and the quivering 

 lance-wood lay across the distended knuckles. Nor 

 fish nor rod could stand that pressure long. I 

 could feel the fibres creep along the delicate shaft, 

 and the mottled line, woven of choicest silk, at- 

 tenuated under the strain, seemed like a single hair. 

 ' I looked at John. His eyes were fastened upon the 

 rod. I glanced down the stream, and even at the 

 instant the three magnificent fish, forced gradually 

 up by the pliancy of what they could not break, 

 broke the smooth surface and lay with open 

 mouths and gasping gills upon the tide. In 

 trying to land the three, the largest one escaped. 

 The other two averaged sixteen inches long. With- 

 in the space of forty minutes nearly a hundred 

 trout had been taken, fifty of which, varying from 

 one quarter of a pound to two pounds and a haK in 

 weight, lay along the bottom of the boat ; the rest 



