tcap."
Rod in a bow, like a springle-riser; line on the hum, like the string
of Paganini winch on the gallop, like a harpoon wheel, Pike, the
head-centre of everything, dashing through thick and thin, and once
taken overhead--for he jumped into the hole, when he must have lost
him else, but the fish too impetuously towed him out, and made off in
passion for another pool, when, if he had only retired to his hover, the
angler might have shared the baker's fate--all these things (I tell you,
for they all come up again, as if the day were yesterday) so scared me
of my never very steadfast wits, that I could only holloa! But one thing
I did, I kept the nightcap ready.
"He is pretty nearly spent, I do believe," said Pike; and his voice was
like balm of Gilead, as we came to Farmer Anning's meadow, a quarter of
a mile below Crocker's Hole. "Take it coolly, my dear boy, and we shall
be safe to have him."
Never have I felt, through forty years, such tremendous responsibility.
I had not the faintest notion now to use a landing net; but a mighty
general directed me. "Don't let him see it; don't let him see it! Don't
clap it over him; go under him, you stupid! If he makes another rush, he
will get off, after all. Bring it up his tail. Well done! You have him!"
The mighty trout lay in the nightcap of Pike, which was half a fathom
long, with a tassel at the end, for his mother had made it in the winter
evenings. "Come and hold the rod, if you can't lift him," my master
shouted, and so I did. Then, with both arms straining, and his mouth
wide open, John Pike made a mighty sweep, and we both fell upon the
grass and rolled, with the giant of the deep flapping heavily between
us, and no power left to us, except to cry, "Hurrah!"
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Crocker's Hole, by R. D. Blackmore
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