is indication, then, cover several days, and no more about it, except
that the time arrived when I caught a fish badly scored by seals, which
infested the tideway, and that I worked hard for odd hits and misses
with small fish on other days.

My best fish, in all senses of the word, was a godsend, and I rose her
with a full-sized Wilkinson. She weighed 31 1/2 lb., and was the
largest baggit which either Sligh or Guthrie could remember being
caught in the Tweed. Up to the date of capture I believe it was the
heaviest fish taken with a fly that season, but a week later a lady
angler in Sprouston dub above took one of 35 lb. My fish gave me a
rousing bit of sport, lasting a little over the accepted average time
of a pound weight to the minute. But the circumstances warranted five
minutes' grace. It was one of the very bad days, with blustering
hailstorms, and evening was coming on. A grilse had risen short, and
contributed another item to the losses account (nine in four days was
the added total), and I was as gloomy as the weather, but fished on in
calm desperation.

At last a long-drawn "Ha" from myself duetted (if I may coin the word)
with "Y'r ento 'm, sir," from Guthrie. The fish walloped an instant
near the surface, and then behaved with orthodox correctness, went down
steady, and swiftly ran out sixty yards of line or so. Of the others I
had said, "I shan't like this fish, Guthrie, till he's in the net." Of
this one I now observed, "I think he's right this time." Guthrie
responded, beaming, "Aye, he's grippit it weel."

It was a piece of good fortune that I hooked my friend so near shore
that I was landed and free on the bank within five minutes. After
running across the strong stream the fish moderated speed, and the
winch could be worked. Some eighty yards below was a dangerous turmoil
of broken water, foaming off to a shallow. The fish was manifestly a
good one, and must be kept from those rocks at all hazards. Once in
the hurly-burly of the foam the chances would be all on its side. Not
a little disconcerting was it to find that it was making to this place
with persevering steadiness. The tackle was tried and good; nothing
was likely to give but the mouth of the fish. At one time my heart
sank, and I feared I was to be outdone again. Pulling hard, the salmon
forced me along the pebbly beach, with every ounce of strain I dared.
There it was at last, within five yards of the rough water, and th