THE LAST DAY’S FISHING. 
105 
When we reached the Cave of the Bull it was 
apparent that the river had fallen several feet. 
The evening before we had killed two great 
fish, my companion one of forty-two pounds and 
a half, and I one of thirty-three and a half, in 
the stream which forms the arm of the V on the 
Misiones side : not, be it noted, in the smooth 
water itself, which we could barely reach. 
To-day this stream was altered out of all know¬ 
ledge. Not a touch did we get. So, after 
consulting Pedroso, we decided to get across to 
the head of a rough stream on the Paraguay 
side, where some black shining rocks, just 
emerging, showed that an island would soon be 
formed. 
Pedroso paddled energetically across. We 
wedged the canoe firmly between two flat stones, 
and I stood up to cast. It was not long before 
a fish seized the spoon and tore across and 
down, heaving and jumping and smashing the 
water into spray. Do what I would, he would 
not stop. Down stream he went, leaping and 
swirling, and then turned across, springing 
four feet into the air right away on the far 
side of the stream, a hundred and eighty yards 
off, looking so distant and disconnected that it 
was difficult to believe that anything linked us. 
To follow him was out of the question. He 
must be brought back, brought back with all 
that line out and all that weight of water 
behind him. I had held him hard all through 
