But I insisted and she took the rod, a fourteen-foot split bamboo. She looked behind her, to see that the coast was clear. There were no bushes for her to hook and no rise of ground to look out for.
"Steady, Miss Jelliffe," I said. "Don't get nervous. If he rises don't try to strike. They will hook themselves as often as not. Begin by casting away from that place until you get out enough line, then get your fly a little beyond that spot and draw in gently."
"I've caught plenty of big trout," she said, excitedly, "but I've never landed a salmon. I am nearly hoping that he won't take the fly. I won't know what to do."
"There has to be a first time in everything," I told her. "Just imagine you're after a big trout."
She appeared to become cooler and more confident, letting out a little line, retrieving it nicely, and lengthening her cast straight across the stream. The rod was going back expertly, just slightly over her right shoulder, and the line whizzed overhead.
"Easy," I advised her; "it is a longer rod than you are used to."
She waited properly until the line had straightened out behind her, and cast again.
"That is plenty, now for that rock, Miss Jelliffe," I said.
There was another cast, with a slight twist of her supple waist. The fly flew out, falling two or three yards beyond the rock and she pulled back, gently, her lure rippling the dark surface. Then came a faint splash, a vision of a silvery gleam upon the water, which smoothed down again while the line came back as light as ever.
"Easy, easy, don't cast again in the same place," I advised.