l on
until the winch gives you warning that a fish has hooked itself.

Casting from a boat is much more trying than casting in other ways.
When on foot you are tired of fishing, you can choose your resting
place and sit down; but in a boat you are cramped and confined all the
time, with only the muscles of arms and shoulders engaged. One forgets
all this, of course, when there is sport, and I often smile on
remembering the amused expression which used to steal over the faces of
my men when they first beheld the little formulas which I always
observe, be the fun fast or slow. I can best explain this by recalling
one particular evening on the Mandal river. It was the one occasion
when I deemed it necessary to take out a mackintosh. With the
exception of a thunderstorm in the early part of July, the downpour as
to which was during the night, the days had been of strong and unbroken
sunshine; but in the middle of the month there came a close, cloudy day
when the flies were exceedingly troublesome, and the only mosquitoes
that were annoying during our stay came out in full trumpeting for an
hour or two. There was a favourite pool, very long and lively, which
we called Olaf's Garden, that served me very well, and one morning, in
bright sunshine, in the course of a half-hour I caught three fish
weighing 15 lb.

On this day it began to dawn upon me that the water had become too low
for a grilse to remain here any length of time. Higher up was a
favourite reach of mine, named Pot Pool, and after fishing Olaf's
Garden and another reach, finding only a couple of grilse, I moved
elsewhere, and in the evening discovered that the fish appeared to be
resting in Pot Pool. A gentleman who formerly leased the Mandal river
had recommended me to try some of the delicate flies dressed by Haynes,
of Cork, and with one of these (the Orange Grouse), at starting,
between seven and eight, I killed a grilse of 5 lb. The pool was then
fished down leisurely, with no other result. Returning to the head, a
long rest was called, and, as I suspected there might be salmon, I
changed the fly to a fair-sized Durham Ranger. My gaffer, Ole, had
done me the honour in the forenoon of losing an 18-lb. or 20-lb. fish
in another pool, and though his custom was to sit on a rock and sing a
hymn while Knut was working at the oars, this evening, while I was
fishing the pool, the memory of his afternoon mishap kept him dolefully
silent. I had directed hi