made no sign, and at length my sportsman's eagerness began to flag, and my
eye roamed across the meadows to the church spire, under the shadow of
which life as I could never know it was lilting merrily northwards. Here I
was and here I should remain, like a cabbage, till Death pulled me up by
the roots.

Worthy Master Walton says that angling is the contemplative man's
recreation, and, having had in these later years much to con over in my
mind, I know that he is right. But it is no occupation for a fuming man,
and as I marched up and down I forgot all about my cork, till, with a
short laugh that had the tail of a curse in it, I noted that a real gaff
was a silly weapon with which to cut down an imaginary Highlander, and
turned again to my angling.

And at that very moment a thing happened the like of which I had never
seen before, and have not since seen in another ten years of fishing. My
rod was jerked clean off the bank, and careered away down-stream so fast
that I had to run hard to get level with it. Here was work indeed, and at
that joyous moment I would not have changed places with Jack Dobson.
Without ado, I jumped into the river, waded out, recovered the butt of my
rod, and struck.

"As big as a gate-post." Joe was right. As I struck, the jack came to the
surface. The great stretch of yellow belly and the monstrous length of
vicious snout made my heart leap for joy. I would rather land him than
command a regiment. My rod bent to a sickle as I fought him, giving him
line and pulling in, again, again, and again. A dozen times I saw the
black bars on his shimmering back as he came at me, evil in his red-rimmed
eyes and danger in his cruel teeth, but the stout tackle stood it out.
Sweat poured off my forehead though I was up to the waist in ice-cold