ule, before
making the next cast. There was a tiny wren singing among the
Balm-o'-Gilead trees on the opposite shore, with a voice that rose
silverly above the noise of the rapids. "Cheer up, cheer up," it seemed
to say, "what's the matter with you? Don't hurry, don't worry, try it
again--again--again!"

But the next cast was made in vain. There was no response. Chichester
changed his fly. The result was the same. He tried three different
flies in succession without effect. Then he gave the top of the pool a
rest, and fished down through the smooth water at the lower end,
hooking and losing a small fish. Then he came back to the big salmon
again, and fished a small Durham Ranger over him without success. A
number four Critchley's Fancy produced no better result. A tiny double
Silver Grey brought no response. Then he looked through his fly-box in
despair, and picked out an old three-nought Prince of Orange--a huge,
gaudy affair with battered feathers, which he had used two years before
in flood-water on the Restigouche. At least it would astonish the
salmon, for it looked like a last season's picture-hat, very much the
worse for wear. It lit on the ripples with a splash, and floated down
stream in a dishevelled state till it reached the edge of the sunken
rock. Bang! The salmon rose to that incredible fly with a rush, and
went tearing across the pool.

The reel shrieked wildly as the line ran out. The rod quivered and bent
almost double. Chichester had the butt pressed against his belt, the
tip well up in the air, the reel-handle free from any possible touch of
coat-flap or sleeve. To check that fierce rush by a hundredth part of a
second meant the snapping of the delicate casting-line, or the smashing
of the pliant rod-tip. He knew, as the salmon leaped clear of the
water, once, twice, three times, that he was in for the fight of his
life; and he dropped the point of the rod quickly at each leap to yield
to the sudden strain.

The play, at first, was fast and furious. The salmon started up the
stream, breasting the rapids at a lively rate, and taking out line as
rapidly as the reel could run. Chichester followed along the open
shore, holding his rod high with both hands, stumbling over the big
rocks, wading knee-deep across a side-channel of the river, but keeping
his feet somehow, until the fish paused in the lower part of the pool
called _La Batture_. Here there was a chance to reel in line, and the
men poled the