THE DUFFER WITH A SALMON-ROD
FROM "THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER"
No pursuit is more sedentary, if one may talk of a sedentary pursuit, and none more to my taste, than trout-fishing as practised in the South of England. Given fine weather, and a good novel, nothing can be more soothing than to sit on a convenient stump, under a willow, and watch the placid kine standing in the water, while the brook murmurs on, and perhaps the kingfisher flits to and fro. Here you sit and fleet the time carelessly, till a trout rises. Then, indeed, duty demands that you shall crawl in the manner of the serpent till you come within reach of him, and cast a fly, which usually makes him postpone his dinner-hour. But he will come on again, there is no need for you to change your position, and you can always fill your basket easily—with irises and marsh-marigolds.
Such are our country contents, but woe befall the day when I took to salmon-fishing. The outfit is expensive, "half-crown flees" soon mount up, especially if you never go out without losing your fly-book. If you buy a light rod, say of fourteen feet, the chances are that it will not cover the water, and a longer rod requires in the fisherman the strength of a Sandow. You need wading-breeches, which come up nearly to the neck, and weigh a couple of stone. The question has been raised, can one swim in them, in case of an accident? For one, I can answer, he can't. The reel is about the size of a butter-keg, the line measures hundreds of yards, and the place where you fish for salmon is usually at the utter ends of the earth. Some enthusiasts begin in February. Covered with furs, they sit in the stern of a boat, and are pulled in a funereal manner up and down Loch Tay, while the rods fish for themselves. The angler's only business is to pick them up if a salmon bites, and when this has gone on for a few days, with no bite, influenza, or a hard frost with curling, would be rather a relief. This kind of thing is not really angling, and a Duffer is as good at it as an expert.
Real difficulties and sufferings begin when you reach the Cruach-na-spiel-bo, which sounds like Gaelic, and will serve us as a name for the river. It is, of course, extremely probable that you pay a large rent for the right to gaze at a series of red and raging floods, or at a pale and attenuated trickle of water, murmuring peevishly through a drought. But suppose, for the sake of argument, that the water is "in order," and only running with deep brown swirls at some thirty miles an hour. Suppose also, a large presumption, that the Duffer does not leave any indispensable part of his equipment at home. He arrives at the stream, and as he detests a gillie, whose contempt for the Duffer breeds familiarity, he puts up his rod, selects a casting line, knots on the kind of fly which is locally recommended, and steps into the water. Oh, how cold it is! I begin casting at the top of the stream, and step from a big boulder into a hole.
Stagger, stumble, violent bob forwards, recovery, trip up, and here one is in a sitting position in the bed of the stream. However, the high india-rubber breeks have kept the water out, except about a pailful, which gradually illustrates the equilibrium of fluids in the soles of one's stockings. However, I am on my feet again, and walking more gingerly, though to the spectator my movements suggest partial intoxication. That is because the bed of the stream is full of boulders, which one cannot see, owing to the darkness of the water. There was a fish rose near the opposite side. My heart is in my mouth. I wade in as far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe with the rod. A frantic tug behind, crash, there goes the top of the rod! I am caught up in the root of a pine-tree, high up on the bank at my back. No use in the language of imprecation. I waddle out, climb the bank, extricate the fly, get out a spare top, and to work again, more cautiously. Something wrong, the hook has caught in my coat, between my shoulders. I must get the coat off somehow, not an easy thing to do, on account of my india-rubber armour. It is off at last. I cut the hook out with a knife, making a big hole in the coat, and cast again. That was over him! I let the fly float down, working it scientifically. No response. Perhaps better look at the fly. Just my luck, I have cracked it off!
Where is the fly-book? Where indeed? A feverish search for the fly-book follows—no use: it is not in the basket, it is not in my pocket; must have fallen out when I fell into the river. No good in looking for it, the water is too thick, I thought I heard a splash. Luckily there are some flies in my cap, it looks knowing to have some flies in one's cap, and it is not so easy to lose a cap without noticing it, as to lose most things. Here is a big Silver Doctor that may do as the water is thick. I put one on, and begin again casting over where that fish rose. By George, there he came at me, at least I think it must have been at me, a great dark swirl, "the purple wave bowed over it like a hill," but he never touched me. Give him five minutes law, the hook is sure to be well fastened on, need not bother looking at that again. Five minutes take a long time in passing, when you are giving a salmon a rest. Good times and bad times and all times pass, so here goes. It is correct to begin a good way above him and come down to him. I'm past him; no, there is a long heavy drag under water, I get the point up, he is off like a shot, while I stand in a rather stupid attitude, holding on. If I cannot get out and run down the bank, he has me at his mercy. I do stagger out, somehow, falling on my back, but keeping the point up with my right hand. No bones broken, but surely he is gone! I begin reeling up the line, with a heavy heart, and try to lift it out of the water. It won't come, he is here still, he has only doubled back. Hooray! Nothing so nice as being all alone when you hook a salmon. No gillie to scream out contradictory orders. He is taking it very easy, but suddenly he moves out a few yards, and begins jiggering, that is, giving a series of short heavy tugs. They say he is never well hooked, when he jiggers. The rod thrills unpleasantly in my hands, I wish he wouldn't do that. It is very disagreeable and makes me very nervous. Hullo! he is off again up-stream, the reel ringing like mad: he gets into the thin water at the top, and jumps high in the air. He is a monster. Hullo! what's that splash? The reel has fallen off, it was always loose, and has got into the water. How am I to act now? He is coming back like mad, and all the line is loose, and I can't reel up. I begin pulling at the line to bring up the reel, but the reel only lets the line out, and now he's off again, down stream this time, and I after him, 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 thing, rushes across the Big Pool, nearly on to the opposite bank. Why won't the line run? The line is entangled in my bootlace. He is careering about; I feel that I am trembling like a leaf. There, I knew it would happen; he is off with my last casting-line, hook and all. A beauty he was, clear as silver and fresh from the sea. Well, there is nothing for it but a walk back to the house. I have lost one fly-book, two hooks, a couple of casting-lines, three salmon, a top joint, and I have torn a great hole in my coat. On changing my dress before lunch, I find my fly-book in my breast pocket, where I had not thought of looking for it somehow. Then the rain comes, and there is not another fishing day in my fortnight. Still, it decidedly was "one crowded hour of glorious life," while it lasted. The other men caught four or five salmon apiece; it is their red letter day. It is marked in black in my calendar.
To Well-Informed Piscatorials.—Query. What sort of fish is a Nod?
Note. A Nod is a sea-fish, and is, probably, of the limpet tribe. This we gather from our knowledge of the Periwinkle, known in polite circles as the 'Wink. The value of the Nod has come down to us in the form of an old proverb, "A Nod is as good as a 'Wink," and this no doubt originated the query to which we have satisfactorily replied.
"What bait are yer usin', Billie?"
"Cheese."
"What are yer tryin' ter catch—mice?"
"A SALMON TAKING A FLY"
Trials of a Novice.—Friend (in the distance). "Enjoying it, old chap?"
Novice. "Rather!"
Diminutive Nursemaid (to angler, who has not had a bite for hours). "Oh, please, sir, do let baby see you catch a fish!"
"Not Proven."—Presbyterian Minister. "Don't you know it's wicked to catch fish on the Sawbath?!"
Small Boy (not having had a rise all the morning). "Wha's catchin' fesh?!"
Old Gent (who has recently purchased the property). "Now, don't you boys know that nobody can catch fish in this stream except with my—er—a—special permit?"
Youthful Angler. "Get away! Why, me and this 'ere kid's catched scores of 'em wi' a worrum!"
Angler (after landing his tenth—reading notice). "The man who wrote that sign couldn't have been using the right bait!"
Misplaced Sympathy.—"Well? Have you caught any fish, Billy?"
"Well, I really caught two! But they were quite young, poor little things, and so they didn't know how to hold on!"
TRIALS OF A NOVICE
Angler. "Hush! Keep back! Keep back! I had a beautiful rise just then; shall get another directly."
DREADFUL SITUATION!
Party in Waders (on the shallower side, with nice trout on). "Now then, you idiot, bring me the net, can't you, or he'll be off in a second!"
"Deuced odd, Donald, I can't get a fish over seven pounds, when they say Major Grant above us killed half a dozen last week that turned twenty pounds apiece!"
Donald. "Aweel, sir, it's no that muckle odds i'th' sawmon,—but thae fowk up the watter is bigger leears than we are doon here!"
"One Good Turn," etc.—City Man (to one of his clerks he finds fishing in his ornamental water). "Look here, Smithers, I've no objection to giving you a day now and then 'to attend your aunt's funeral'—but I think you might send some of the fish up to the house!"
Missed.—Angus. "Eh, man, that wass a splendid cod! If we had gotten that cod, noo, we micht ha' been ha'ein' a dram."
Mr. Smith (from Glasgow). "Indeed, and ye would, Angus."
Bauldry. "Mebbe, Maister Smuth, if we wad have had a dram afore ye wass lettin' doon yer line, we micht have grappit that muckle fush!"
Friend. "Hullo, old chappie! Fallen in?"
Dripping Angler. "You don't suppose this is a perspiration, do you?"
The Gentle Craftsman (?).—Irascible Angler (who hasn't had a rise all day). "There!"—(Throwing his fly-book into the stream, with a malediction)—"Take your choice!"
Unlucky.—American Cousin (last day of season). "What sport? 'Guess I've been foolin' around all day with a twenty-five-dollar pole, slinging fourteen-cent baits at the end of it, and haven't caught a darned fish!"
"There's many a Slip," etc.—Waggles saw a splendid three-pound trout feeding in a quiet place on the Thames one evening last week. Down he comes the next night, making sure of him! But some other people had seen him too!!
Contemplative Man (in punt). "I don't so much care about the sport, it's the delicious repose I enjoy so."
MENACE
Little Angler (to her refractory bait). "Keep still, you tiresome little thing! If you don't leave off skriggling, I'll throw you away, and take another!"
A BLANK DAY
Old Gent (greeting friend). "Hullo, Jorkins! 'Been fishing? What did you catch?"
Jorkins (gloomily). "Ha'-past six train home!"
AN OBVIOUSLY UNKIND INQUIRY
Brown (to Jones, who has, for the first time, been trying his hand at fishing from a boat). "Well, old chap, what sort o' sport?"
SEIZING HIS OPPORTUNITY
The Major (on his way to try for the big trout, and pondering on his fly-book). "Now I wonder what he'll take? What d'you say, Smithers, eh?"
Smithers (pulling up with alacrity). "Take, sir? Well, sir, thanky, sir, sup o' whisky, sir, for choice!"
Conscientious Flattery.—Boatman. "I canna mind a finer fesh for its size!"
Wet and Dry.—Careful Wife. "Are you very wet, dear?"
Ardent Angler (turning up his flask). "No, dry as a lime-kiln—haven't had a drop these two hours!
Dry-Fly Entomology.—(Scene—The banks of a Hampshire stream in the grayling season). Angler (the rise having abruptly ceased). "I think they're taking a siesta, Thompson."
Keeper. "I dessay they are, sir, but any other fly with a touch o' red in it would do as well."
Egomania.—(Scene—The Bar Parlour of the "Little Peddlington Arms" during a shower.) Little Peddlingtonian (handing newspaper to stranger from London). "Have you seen that account of our fishing competition in the Little Peddlington Gazette, sir?"
"No, I'm afraid I've not!"
"It's a very interesting article, sir. It mentions my name several times!"
Bottom Fishing.—Piscator No. 1 (miserably). "Now, Tom, do leave off. It isn't of any use, and it's getting quite dark."
Piscator No. 2. "Leave off!! What a precious disagreeable chap you are! You come out for a day's pleasure, and you're already wanting to go home!"
Trials of a Novice.—Unfeeling Passer-by. "Say, mister! Are you fly-fishing, or 'eaving the lead?"
Piscator, Senior. "What! yer want to chuck it up jus because we never catches nothing. Why, I'd like to know how yer proposes to spend the remainder of yer 'olidays, eh?"
A BROAD HINT
Piscator. "Yes, I like a day at this time of year. Get all the water to myself, you see."
Yokel. "Ah! And mayhap have a sup o' the whisky to spare for somebody else, governor?"
Tom (writing).—"I say, Bob, I'm rubbing in the local colour for the benefit of the folk at home—could you help me to some correct fishing expressions—just to give the thing an atmosphere?"
Bob. "I've heard a lot one time and another, old man, but the only one I remember is—'Pass the flask'!"
"Might be Worse!"—First Jolly Angler (peckish after their walk). "Got the sandwiches and——"
Second Jolly Angler (diving into creel). "Oh, yes, here they are, all right, and here's the whisk—but—tut-t-t, by Jove!—I've forgotten the fishing-tackle!!"
First Jolly Angler. "Oh, ne' mind—we'll get along quite well without that!"