y hands. I would rather have died
among the pebbles than surrender my right to play and land my first
salmon, weight unknown, on an eight-ounce rod. I heard California, at my
ear it seemed, gasping: "He's a fighter from Fightersville sure!" as his
fish made a fresh break across the stream. I saw Portland fall off a log
fence, break the overhanging bank, and clatter down to the pebbles, all
sand and landing-net, and I dropped on a log to rest for a moment. As I
drew breath the weary hands slackened their hold, and I forgot to give
him the butt. A wild scutter in the water, a plunge and a break for the
head-waters of the Clackamas was my reward, and the hot toil of
reeling-in with one eye under the water and the other on the top joint
of the rod, was renewed. Worst of all, I was blocking California's path
to the little landing-bay aforesaid, and he had to halt and tire his
prize where he was. "The Father of all Salmon!" he shouted. "For the
love of Heaven, get your _trout_ to bank, Johnny Bull." But I could no
more. Even the insult failed to move me. The rest of the game was with
the salmon. He suffered himself to be drawn, skipping with pretended
delight at getting to the haven where I would fain have him. Yet no
sooner did he feel shoal water under his ponderous belly than he backed
like a torpedo-boat, and the snarl of the reel told me that my labour
was in vain. A dozen times at least this happened ere the line hinted he
had given up that battle and would be towed in. He was towed. The
landing-net was useless for one of his size, and I would not have him
gaffed. I stepped into the shallows and heaved him out with a
respectful hand under the gill, for which kindness he battered me about
the legs with his tail, and I felt the strength of him and was proud.
California had taken my place in the shallows, his fish hard held. I was
up the bank lying full length on the sweet-scented grass, and gasping in
company with my first salmon caught, played and landed on an eight-ounce
rod. My hands were cut and bleeding. I was dripping with sweat, spangled
like harlequin with scales, wet from the waist down, nose-peeled by the
sun, but utterly, supremely, and consummately happy. He, the beauty, the
darling, the daisy, my Salmon Bahadur, weighed twelve pounds, and I had
been seven and thirty minutes bringing him to bank! He had been lightly
hooked on the angle of the right jaw, and the hook had not wearied him.
That hour I sat among pri