The tiny
gut loop of the fly was dreadfully frayed, and with a heavy heart I began
fishing again. My friend on the opposite side called out that big fish
were rising in the bend of the stream, so thither I went, stumbling over
rocks, and casting with much difficulty, as the high overgrown banks
permit no backward sweep of the line. You are obliged to cast by a kind
of forward thrust of the arms, a knack not to be acquired in a moment. I
splashed away awkwardly, but at last managed to make a straight, clean
cast. There was a slight pull, such as a trout gives in mid-stream under
water. I raised the point, and again the reel sang aloud and gleefully
as the salmon rushed down the stream farther and faster than the first.
It is a very pleasant thing to hook a salmon when you are all alone, as I
was then--alone with yourself and the Goddess of Fishing. This salmon,
just like the other, now came back, and instantly began the old tactics
of heavy plunging tugs. But I knew the gut was sound this time, and as I
fancied he had risen to the sniggler, I had no anxiety about the tackle
holding. One more plunge, and back came the line as before. He was off.
One could have sat down and gnawed the reel. What had gone wrong? Why,
the brute had taken the old fly from the farmhouse and had snapped the
loop that attaches the gut.
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