48 
THE GOLDEN RIVER. 
Late that afternoon, when the sun had got 
behind the Paraguayan forest and the swift 
tropic night was near, I killed a dorado of 
twenty pounds and a quarter. How heavy the 
big one was, I do not know. But I do know 
that the twenty pounder felt like a trout com¬ 
pared to him. And, as though the tragedy of 
the day were not complete, another fish, hooked 
just before dark, again broke my cursed line; 
broke it right in the middle of the backing and 
carried away all that remained of the reel line. 
Perhaps it was as well that it should go to the 
bottom of the Parana. It was rotten from end 
to end : and the reader, who must be as sick of 
it as I was, shall hear no more of it. 
