be in every detail
sound and sure.

My temporary gillie D. was by nature taciturn but always willing. This
morning he was willing enough, but mum as an oyster. Nay, he sat upon
the great grey rock on the little island and watched me make ready with
a wonderfully melancholy expression. It was only when a salmon on the
other side splashed noisily that he smiled--the grim relaxation of
features that means resignation tempered with pity, not encouragement,
nor hope, nor approval. His entire demeanour said, "To think that I
should have carried the gaff, and gillied good salmon fishermen for
years, and be degraded into this mean tomfoolery." A little impressed
with his attitude, and, I think I may add, half in sympathy, I advised
him as well as I could to rest him tranquilly on the rock, and not
worry till I demanded his assistance. Then, hitching up my wading
stockings, I went in to less than knee-deep and angled for trout for a
quarter of an hour to no purpose. The green, dark water of the regular
current was an easy cast out, but the fish I sought were generally
taken on its edge, or in about a foot depth of shallow, when the flies
came down at the end of a line that had been allowed to sweep round
with the stream. I got a couple of 9-in. fish, and knew that the
half-pounders were not rising.

Next I moved in to above the knees, and pulled out a little more line;
was looking up at the snow patches on the mountain tops, and the fir
trees on the slope, when I was startled by a rude pluck and a whirring
of the little reel. I receded to shore as quickly as I could with a
bent rod and running fish to hold, and then became aware that my line
could not be more than thirty yards in length. Down and down went the
fish. Sometimes he paused and shook himself; now and again he even
responded to my winching in, or even played about without rushing.
Once he ran ten yards upstream, but for the most part I ran with him,
and was mainly absorbed by a desire to keep as much line in hand as
possible. D. had seen my position at once, and was soon at my rear,
pocket gaff in hand, and all the sadness gone from his harsh visage. I
think the fight lasted about ten minutes, but it was splendid battle
every moment of the time, and D. finally gaffed out a silvery grilse,
the smallest I had ever taken. I weighed him on the spot; he was 3 lb.
He had taken the small edition of the Killer, and a few moments more
would have given him libe