Now he sulked so
intensely that I thought he had got the line round a rock. It might be
broken, might be holding fast to a sunken stone, for aught that I could
tell; and the time was passing, I knew not how rapidly. I tried all
known methods, tugging at him, tapping the butt, and slackening line on
him. At last the top of the rod was slightly agitated, and then, back
flew the long line in my face. Gone! I reeled up with a sigh, but the
line tightened again. He had made a sudden rush under my bank, but there
he lay again like a stone. How long? Ah! I cannot tell how long! I
heard the church clock strike, but missed the number of the strokes. Soon
he started again down-stream into the shallows, leaping at the end of his
rush--the monster. Then he came slowly up, and 'jiggered' savagely at
the line. It seemed impossible that any tackle could stand these short
violent jerks. Soon he showed signs of weakening. Once his huge silver
side appeared for a moment near the surface, but he retreated to his old
fastness. I was in a tremor of delight and despair. I should have
thrown down my rod, and flown on the wings of love to Olive and the
altar. But I hoped that there was time still--that it was not so very
late! At length he was failing. I heard ten o'clock strike.
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