. . . and then? Instead of running away, he ran right at
the fisherman, for reasons which were but too patent. Between man
and fish were ten yards of shallow, then a deep weedy shelf, and then
the hole which was his house. And for that weedy shelf the spotted
monarch made, knowing that there he could drag himself clear of the
fly, as perhaps he had done more than once before.
What was to be done? Take him down-stream through the weed? Alas,
on the man's left hand an old pollard leant into the water, barring
all downward movement. Jump in and run round? He had rather to run
back from the bank, from fear of a loose line; the fish was coming at
him so fast that there was no time to wind up. Safe into the weeds
hurls the fish; the man, as soon as he finds the fish stop, jumps in
mid-leg deep, and staggers up to him, in hopes of clearing; finds the
dropper fast in the weeds, and the stretcher, which had been in the
fish's mouth, wantoning somewhere in the depths--Quid plura? Let us
draw a veil over that man's return to shore.
No mortal skill could have killed that fish.
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