hing short of
_cat_astrophe. Jamie beguiled the next drift by reminiscences of Sir
George Griffith (the angling father of an angling son), Alfred Denison,
Liddell, John Bright, George Rooper, and other anglers whom he had
piloted to victory--a charming method of rubbing the salt into your
smarts.

The dogcart was to be at the head of the dub at five, and the rumble of
its wheels had been heard while we were yet about fifty yards from the
landing place on the upward course, fishing deep, and letting the long
line work slowly round to its farthest limit in the wake. There were
no more puns now; I freely admit that I was silent--ay, depressed.
Jamie, too, was disappointed; a couple of spectators on the bank were
also practising the silence of sympathy. The game was up, and nothing
need be said.

Ah! what a magnificent swirl. Deep down went the fish, as up went the
rod, and, backache and despondency vanishing, I held him hard. The
first dash of the fish told me an unexpected and alarming bit of news.
The confounded winch would not run out with the salmon, and I had to
ease out line with the left hand and keep the big rod raised with the
right. Luckily the winch worked after a fashion when reeled in, and if
the single gut at the end of the twisted cast would hold all might be
well. And behold it did hold. The fish was heavy, as everyone saw
from the first, and it behaved fairly well. One ugly rush, which was
the critical point of the battle, passed without accident, and the
salmon was revealed--a silvery beauty that was more than ever your
heart's desire. Easy and firm was the motto now. The fish was at last
safe in Jamie's net, and if it was beaten so was I, thanks to the
treacherous reel. The prize was a baggit of 22 lb., as bright as a
spring fish, and perfectly shaped.

CHAPTER V

MUSINGS OF A BUSH RIDE

Here I am riding along the sandy track all alone in the Australian
bush, flicking off a wattle blossom singled out from the yellow mass
with my hunting crop, fancying it is a fly rod, and rehearsing the old
trick of sending a fly into a particular leaf. Ah! little mare
Brownie, what are you doing? Did you never before see a charred stump
that you should shy so? Do you fancy that you are a thoroughbred that
you should bolt at such a gentle touch of the spur? So you espy the
half-way house, do you, and fancy that fifteen miles, up and down, in a
trifle under two hours, has earned you a spell, a