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