He concluded his remarks by inquiring who Huxley might be, and was just setting off up the valley with a bottle of Condy’s fluid to pour over the glacier, when the Skipper, who had wandered down to the Memurua River instead of arguing, suddenly rushed back with his fingers tightly holding his nose, and shaking his fist at Öla, said something that began with ‘Dab,’ and went on with other unknown words.
At last we gathered from his expressions that the barrel of ‘raki fiske’ had not been thrown into the torrent at all, but our villanous retainers had secreted it near the stream, intending to have a feast as soon as it should have become rotten enough to please their cultivated taste. Truly a Norwegian has the nastiest notions of food. Now the ‘raki fiske,’ barrel and all, is buried a yard deep, a long way from here, and life is again pleasant, but we have little doubt that Öla and Ivar will come back and root about and dig it up after we have left the country say a month hence: it ought to be in perfect condition by that time.
[CHAPTER XXI.]
FISHING.
August 20.—
The first thing this morning we sent Öla to Gjendesheim with some venison for the people there, who have been very kind in sending milk, eggs, rice, onions, &c. to us. We have more meat than we shall be able to eat if the weather continues as fine and hot as it is at present.
We three walked over the mountain to spend the day at Rus Vand, taking our lunch with us. We got there about half-past ten, and the fish were then rising well, so we separated and commenced fishing, the Skipper and John taking the north side of the lake, Esau the south. After catching a few fish the rise stopped, as it always does on these lakes about midday.
There is no doubt that on a Norwegian lake the fisherman should above all things ‘make haste while the fish rise.’ It is all very well for the ancient sportsman to remark, ‘Take your time, my young friend, there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.’ It is no doubt true enough; but at this time of year they will not rise to fly for more than about a couple of hours twice a day, and if you do not make the best of your opportunities then, where are you? Put yourself in the place of the fine old veteran three-pounder who has got into the habit of taking his meals at regular hours for fear of spoiling his digestion, and has selected the hours between 10 and 12 A.M. and 4.30 and 6.30 P.M., because he knows from long experience that these are the most likely times to find flies on the water. He has come in from roaming in deep waters to the shades of the rocky coast, and has a certain appetite to allay after his bath and morning stroll. There he waits, and thinks of old times, and of how fat and shiny his tummy became the last hot summer there was, when flies were plentiful, and he had not to resort to this abominable device of catching small trout and eating mice[*] to keep him in daily food, as he nearly always has to do now that the summers are so wet, and he is no longer active enough to compete with his younger relations in the struggle for existence. ‘What times those were, and how he wishes he were a year or two younger again, and not crippled with useless length; and, by George! now he comes to look at his reflection against that stone, he’s getting quite yellow and bilious under the belly, and——’ But he can’t stop to moralise, there is a luscious March Brown of unusual solidity skating right over his pet rock, and he can’t let it pass. So up he comes and gulps it down, with a lazy flop of his tail that leaves quite a swirl on the lake surface. ‘Why, the thing’s got no flavour, and how I’ve hurt my jaw with it!’ Poor old chap, his day is over, and after ten minutes’ struggle he has left his favourite haunt to be occupied by another tenant, and is safe in the landing net, a good three-pound fish, but, like most of those who have reached this size, not quite in as good condition as he was at 2½ lbs., and just a shade longer than he ought to be. Don’t stop to gaze at him, put him in the bag with all speed—it is necessary to hurry up and fish on while the rise lasts.
[*] We have found as many as three mice in the stomach of a Rus Vand trout.