44 
THE GOLDEN RIVER. 
failed once, it would fail again. I tested it. 
It could be broken easily between the hands. 
My thoughts were not pleasant, as I sat in 
the hot sunlight, whilst parrots screamed over¬ 
head and vultures swung at all distances in the 
speckless sky. I was seven thousand miles 
from England and some thousands from the 
nearest tackle shop. The river was falling by 
feet every night and rapidly coming into order. 
It was the beginning of October, the spring of 
the southern hemisphere, and the best of the 
fishing was just starting. Here was I, far up 
the Alto-Parana, between where the Iguazu 
river, after cascading over falls of incompar¬ 
able beauty, pours her broad waters into the 
broader and darker wave of the Parana; and 
that remote and savage spot where the Parand 
herself is hurled and shattered through the wild 
gorge of Guayra. It was a place where few 
fishermen had penetrated. I had looked 
forward to a fortnight of such fishing as not 
many have had before, when the glory of the 
pursuit of that splendid fish is enhanced by the 
magic of the tropics, and the mystery of the 
unknown. There was the opportunity in my 
hand; was it all to be wasted because of a 
wretched rotten line? I cursed myself for 
coming out with only one line. But after all 
who expects a line to break ? Or, if it breaks, 
who expects to find it all rotten? This one 
seemed weak all through. As more and more 
