and the line running out at both ends at once, and now my legs get
entangled in it, it is twisted all round me. He runs again and jumps,
the line comes back in my face, all slack, something has given. It
is the hook, it was not knotted on firmly to start with. He flings
himself out of the water once more to be sure that he is free, and I
sit down and gnaw the reel. Had ever anybody such bad fortune, but it
is just my luck!

I go back to the place where the reel fell in, and by pulling
cautiously I extract it from the stream. It shan't come off again; I
tie it on with the leather lace of one of my brogues. Then I reel up
the slack, and put on another fly, out of my cap, a Popham. Then I
fish down the rest of the pool. Near the edge, in the slower part of
the water, there is a long slow draw, before I can lift the point of
the rod, a salmon jumps high out of the water at me,--and is gone!
I never struck him, was too much taken aback at the moment; did not
expect him then. Thank goodness, the hook is not off this time.

The next stream is very deep, strong and narrow; the best chance is
close in on my side. By Jove, here he is, he took almost beside the
rock. He sails leisurely out into the strength of the stream, if he
will come up, I can manage him, but if he goes down, the water is
very swift and broken, there are big boulders, and then a sheer wall
of rock difficult to pass in cold blood, and then the Big Pool. He
insists on going down, I hold hard on him, and refuse line. But he
leaps, and then, well he _will_ have it; down he rushes, I after him,
over the stones, scrambling along the rocky face; great heavens! _the
top joint of the rod is loose_; I did not tie it on, thought it would
hold well enough. But down it runs, right down the line; it must be
touching the fish. It is; he does not like it, he jiggers like a mad