The little loop was still on the fragment of
minnow tackle which fastened it to the cast.
There was no more chance, for there were now no more flies, except a
small "cobbery," a sea-trout fly from the Sound of Mull. It was time for
us to go, with a heavy heart and a basket empty, except for two or three
miserable trout. The loss of those two salmon, whether big or little
fish, was not the whole misfortune. All the chances of the day were
gone, and seldom have salmon risen so freely. I had not been casting
long enough to smoke half a cigarette, when I hooked each of those fish.
They rose at flies which were the exact opposites of each other in size,
character, and colour. They were ready to rise at anything but the
sniggler. And I had nothing to offer them, absolutely nothing bigger
than a small red-spinner from the Test. On that day a fisher, not far
off, hooked nine salmon and landed four of them, in one pool, I never had
such a chance before; the heavy flood and high wind had made the salmon
as "silly" as perch. One might have caught half a dozen of the great
sturdy fellows, who make all trout, even sea-trout, seem despicable
minnows. Next day I fished again in the same water, with a friend. I
rose a fish, but did not hook it, and he landed a small one, five minutes
after we started, and we only had one other rise all the rest of the day.
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