ng; the rush
of the water as you stand with uncertain foothold over the deep dark
swirl bewildering.

Before leaving me my friend finishes his brief explanation of the
conditions with the application of the whole. "Hold on"; that is the
ABC, the Alpha and Omega of it. So mote it be. Still, saying it is
one thing, doing it another. My steel-centred Hardy I know pretty
well, and have no fear, though it is small by comparison with the
full-sized greenhearts to which my attendant is accustomed, and I can
see that he distrusts it. Of the line and twisted gut collar I am
reasonably sure; the hook, of course, is what it may be. But I test
the tackle all along, and fish down the pool with a large Butcher. It
does not take long, with this express speed of water, and, I think
rather to my relief, nothing happens. Then I flounder out, sit on a
rock, fill a full pipe, and look through my flies. Here is a Wilkinson
that brought me a big fish on bonny Tweed last autumn; for auld lang
syne I meet the blue-eyed gaffsman's shake of the head with a confident
smile, and put up the Kelso fly. I know the hang of the pool now, and
get back again to my precarious ledge, feeling much more master of the
position.

What is that feeling you get in salmon fishing that tells you so surely
that the fly is doing its work well? Certain it is that such an inward
assurance helps you amazingly. Thus at the fourth cast there is a
thrilling pull under water, a momentary, but shrill, complaint from the
winch, and a quivering arched rod. "Hold on," of course, means
shutting the mouth of that reel. The House of Commons gag was never
better applied. Not five yards of line, in fact, go out after the
first rush, stopped with a firmness that amazes myself. But I have to
follow down, in stumbling cautiousness for another ten yards, which
bring me perilously near the torrent of the pool's tail. Now it is the
salmon or the angler. And the fish responds to the insidious sideway
slanting of the rod, and is good enough to head, ever so gingerly, up
into the heavier water. Never no more, Salmo Salar, unless something
smashes--not an inch, be you of gold instead of silver. How the good
man gaffs the fish in the rough edge stream I know not; only he does it
masterly, and with back and knees trembling, and breath puffing hard
and short, I drop upon the moss in an ecstasy of silence.

Yet it is only a salmon of 15 lb.; but that quarter of an hour of "