managed to raise his rod, fully
expecting to find that the salmon had broken off. But it was still on,
and lively. Meanwhile, his comrades on the bank were keeping pace with
him, shouting and yelling with excitement as they ran.

"The rapid, mind the rapid!" roared Grant.

Fred saw a foaming rapid before him. He became anxious. It was
dangerous to venture down this. If he should touch a rock on the way
down, the chances were that he would get a limb broken. The banks here
were so thickly covered with bushes that it was impossible to pass. The
fish still held on its headlong course. "What shall I do?" thought
Fred. "If I stop he will break all to pieces, and I shall lose him.
Lose him! no, never!"

"Don't venture in, Fred," shrieked Sam Sorrel.

But the advice came too late. Fred was already in the foaming current.
In a moment he was swept down into the comparatively still water below
the rapid. His friends lost sight of him, for they had to run round
through the bushes. When they got to the foot of the rapid, they found
Fred on the bank, panting violently, and holding tight to the rod, for
the salmon had stopped there, and was now "sulking" at the bottom of a
deep hole. For a full hour did the fisher labour to pull him out of
that hole in vain; for in this kind of fishing nothing can be done by
main force. The great beauty of the art consists in getting the salmon
to move, and in humouring his movements, so that you tire him out, and
get him gradually close to your side.

At last the fish came out of the deep pool. Then there was another
short struggle of quarter of an hour, and the fisher's perseverance and
skill were rewarded. The salmon at last turned up its silvery side.
Fred drew it slowly to the bank (in breathless anxiety, for many a fish
is lost at this point). Hans struck the gaff in neatly, and with a huge
effort flung it floundering on the bank, amid the hearty cheers of all
present.

This salmon weighed 34 pounds, and was about four feet long! It was a
magnificent fish, and it may well be believed that Fred Temple did not
grudge the two hours' battle, and the risk that he had run in the
catching of it.

CHAPTER TEN.

CONCLUSION.

"Sam Sorrel," said Fred Temple one day to his friend while they were
seated at breakfast in the house of a farmer of the Nord Fiord, "we have
been here more than a fortnight now; we have enjoyed ourselves much,
have had good sport of various kinds,