DRY-FLY FISHING 



stopped after two hours' fishing with eleven fish 

 on the bank; more than the four rods had taken 

 during the past week. Mr. B. remarked to Mr. A. : 

 " You've been a damn fool and that is bad enough, 

 but to be a damn fool for thirty years is the limit." 

 We parted after a drink (which still takes place 

 in Canada) the best of friends, and with an urgent 

 request to return the next morning and bring the 

 Judge, whom I had left at my camp, and have a 

 great day. We were to be there at nine o'clock 

 but were a Uttle late and found Mr. B. had gone 

 down the river to the pool we were to fish. I 

 passed the big fish school with longing eyes and 

 pointed them out to the Judge, but we were guests 

 and did as we were told. Soldier's Gulch is rather 

 a swift run leading into the head of a long pool. 

 It is on a curve giving an excellent chance to wade 

 on the inner side of the circle. Mr. B. had fished 

 the run with three drops down the pool in a big 

 gaspe boat with a wet fly; he had failed to raise 

 any at all and was glad to see us arrive. Logs 

 lay along the shore, and I placed the Judge, who 

 had no waders, on one at the head of the run 

 where he could cast easily over the best water and 

 where I could see many dark patches below the 

 surface indicating bunches of salmon. I went a 



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