It was these disjecta membra that Birger was busying himself about; the task was not an easy one; and if it were, the guardsman was not altogether a proficient. But, even when the reinforcement arrived, there was nothing to be done beyond lifting the whole tangle bodily into the boat, releasing the fish from the hooks, and then, partly by patience, partly by a liberal use of the knife, to get out the tangle on shore. The further half gave them the most trouble to find; it had been moored to a stone, and the back line had been strong enough to drag it some way down the river before it broke. It was, however, at last discovered and secured, and the catch was of sufficient magnitude to ensure a supply of fish, notwithstanding the logs.
“Stop a minute,” said the Captain, as the boats’ heads were put up the stream on their return; “we have not got all the långref yet, I am sure; I see another fish; just pull across that ripple, Parson, a few yards below the end of that stranded log. Yes, to be sure it is, and a salmon, too, and as dead as Harry the Eighth. Steady there! hold water!” and he made a rake for the line with his boat-hook. “Why, what have we got here? it is much too fine for the långref. As I live, it is your own line. To be sure; here it runs. Steady! Let me get a hold of it with my hand, it may not be hitched in the wood firmly, and if it slips we shall lose it entirely. That will do: all right. That must be the log that broke you; it must have stranded here after coming down the Aal Foss, with the fish still on it—and—hurrah! here is the fish all safe—and, I say, Parson, remarkably fine fish it is, certainly! not quite twenty-five pounds, though,”—holding up the fish by the tail, and measuring it against his own leg; for his trousers were marked with inches, from the pocket-button downwards,—a yard measure having been stitched on the seam. “You have not such a thing as a steelyard, have you?”
The Parson, laughing—rather confusedly, though,—produced from his slip pocket the required instrument.
“Ah! I thought so, ten pounds and a half; the biggest fish always do get away, that is certain, especially if they are not caught again; it is a thousand pities I put my eye on this one. I have spoilt your story?”
“Well, well,” said the Parson, “if you have spoilt my story, you have made a good one for yourself, so take the other oar and let us pull for the camp.”
“Birger,” said the Captain, when the boats had been made fast, and the spoils left in the charge of Piersen, “Torkel has been telling the Parson that we are to have three days of these logs. If the rascal speaks the truth, what is to be done by us fishermen?”
“The rascal does speak the truth in this instance, I will be bound for it,” said Birger; “he knows the river well, and besides, it is what they do on every river in Norway that is deep enough to float a baulk.”
“What is to be done, then? there is no fishing on the river while this is going on.”
“I will tell you what we can do,” said Birger; “two or three days ago—that day when I returned to the camp so late—if you remember, I told you that I had fallen in with a lonely lake in the course of my rambles. There was a boat there belonging to a sœter in the neighbourhood, which Piersen knew of, and I missed a beautiful chance at a flight of ducks. However, that is neither here nor there; the people at the sœter told me that the great lake-char was to be found there; so the next day I sent Piersen, who understands laying lines if he does not understand fly-fishing, to set some trimmers for them. I vote we shoot our way to the lake, look at these lines, get another crack at the ducks, and make our way to the Toftdahl (which, if the map is to be trusted, must be somewhere within reach), fish there for a day, shoot our way back again, and by that time the wooden flood will be over.”