Here there was no such thing, but a local spectator
offered me a huge fly, more like a gaff, and equipped with a large iron
eye for attaching the gut to. Withal I suspect this weapon was meant,
not for fair fishing, but for "sniggling." Now "sniggling" is a form of
cold-blooded poaching. In the open water, on the Ettrick, you may see
half a dozen snigglers busy. They all wear high wading trousers; they
are all armed with stiff salmon-rods and huge flies. They push the line
and the top joints of the rod deep into the water, drag it along, and
then bring the hook out with a jerk. Often it sticks in the side of a
salmon, and in this most unfair and unsportsmanlike way the free sport of
honest people is ruined, and fish are diminished in number. Now, the big
fly _may_ have been an honest character, but he was sadly like a rake-
hook in disguise. He did not look as if an fish could fancy him. I,
therefore, sent a messenger across the river to beg, buy, or borrow a fly
at "The Nest." But this pretty cottage is no longer the home of the
famous angling club, which has gone a mile or two up the water and
builded for itself a new dwelling. My messenger came back with one small
fatigued-looking fly, a Popham, I think, which had been lent by some one
at a farmhouse. The water was so heavy that the small fly seemed
useless; however, we fastened it on as a dropper, using the sniggler as
the trail fly; so exhausted were our resources, that I had to cut a piece
of gut off a minnow tackle and attach the small fly to that.
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