A GOOD DAY AT DORADO. 8T 
deep and heavy. 
Now is yonr time. You must stop him now. 
He is still full of fight, and it seems unthinkable 
that you can hold him. But this is the crisis : 
you must risk everything to get him out of the 
stream now, unless you mean to lose him. 
Whilst the fish has been tearing about, 
Pedroso has not been idle. I have been dimly 
conscious of being whirled downstream a 
hundred yards or so, and now we are lying still, 
gently rocking. We are in a big remanso, a 
lake-like backwater, with no stream; Pedroso, 
in answer to my look of enquiry, nods encourag¬ 
ingly. Yes, it is muy profondo, very deep, and 
the shore is far off. A good place to kill a fish. 
And now I have to get him into the remanso. 
He has no intention of coming. He is far out 
in the current, slogging downstream, neither 
fast nor continuously, but tearing off an 
uncomfortable amount of line, and feeling as 
uncontrollable as the trunk of a tree. I must 
haul him in, before he gets too far down; so I 
pull at him hard. The rod groans protestingly, 
the line tautens and jumps, jerking off rainbow 
spray, but still he does not stop. Well, I must 
hang on even if I smash, so I take a turn of the 
line round my gloved hand, and pull harder 
than ever. Still he bores on, pulling the canoe 
half round. At last, with unexpected sudden¬ 
ness, just when it is certain that something 
must go, I feel that his head is round. I reel 
