86 
THE GOLDEN RIVER. 
stream like a hydroplane on the top of the 
waves. No fear of his not being well hooked : 
with a spoon moving at that pace through that 
tearing water he either missed or jammed the 
hook home; and he felt solid as a rock. Down 
he went, the line slicing the water into spray, 
then up into the air four feet, down with a 
smash, then up in the air again, twisting and 
shaking until his head nearly knocked his tail. 
Then, evidently thinking he has done enough 
fireworks, he settles to business. He whizzes 
downstream deep and hard, stripping off more 
than half the reel in spite of heavy braking with 
a wet glove, and on and on till I get nervous. 
Has he turned upstream? I believe he has, 
though I cannot stop line running out. Yes, 
my goodness, he has. There he is right 
opposite, showing like a gentleman, a hundred 
yards off, far above where the line points. I 
must have sixty yards of bagged line. I reel 
in, reel for dear life, reel, reel, till fingers ache 
so that I fumble with the handle. I must get 
it in, I must, the river is full of boulders whose 
tops are like hooks. Thank heaven, it is in, 
I am clear, and get a direct pull again, that 
lovely feeling all fishermen know. The fish 
celebrates the fact by careering all over the 
stream, now up, now down, now across, rolling 
up to the top occasionally and shaking his great 
head. Then suddenly he sounds like a whale, 
flukes in air, and starts off downstream again, 
