# An Angler at Large/Chapter 37

The fishes of this river elude me more and more successfully. Perpetually it rains. I cannot angle; I cannot paint. I propose to boast.
Hitherto I have been absurdly modest. You would suppose from what I have written that I never catch any fishes here. You would be right. But I have caught fishes in my time, great fishes. I am in a mood to dwell upon my bloodstained past. I do this whenever it rains all the week. Let us go to Norway, to that island where I experienced that Perfect Thrill of which I have told you, to that sea-stream where MacAlister and I discovered how to catch flounders esoterically.
At full flood this sea-stream is nothing but a shallow lake, a quarter of a mile each way across, with a narrow mouth at each end, the one opening out of the lake above, the other, fifty yards broad, leading almost directly into the Gulf Stream. At the end of the ebb this second mouth might be cleared by an athletic man, ​properly stimulated, and the shallow lake has become a series of empty pans floored with sand and seaweed among which the sea-stream (you might wet your ankles in it) meanders, clear as crystal and still as glass, save when a flounder wallows across it. I am not a surveyor, and I cannot reach any just approximation—at any rate, not within a million gallons or so—of the amount of water which has to flow out, twice a day, through the sea-gate. But this is a matter of very minor importance, for in flowing out it makes a very pretty, narrow, V-shaped torrent, gliding down to a big, tumbling, foaming pool, where the sea-trout lie, and if Neptune, god of fishes, wills it, go for any standard pattern that you send them.
My first experience of these sea-trout was very painful. I had been casting all morning in a dead calm on the lake, and I had done badly, very badly. There are few games better worth playing than throwing a dry-fly from a boat over rising fish. But when they are not rising and will not be tempted, it is a most dispiriting form of exercise. At two o'clock, I gave it up and went down to the sea-stream to find it tearing through the sea-gate—deep, strong, and foaming. I had never seen it like that before, for hitherto, in my ignorance, I had fished it on the low ebb. ​To do myself justice, the Herr Dr. Oberhausen and MacAlister, my good comrades, had done the same, and they are professed sea-trout fishers. Nothing but small finnocks had been caught, and we held the place cheaply. Still, finnocks are better than nothing at all, and it was for finnocks that I hoped that afternoon. I carried a light greenheart. My gut was the same drawn stuff that I had been using on the lake. I put on a Yellow Pennell, and cast it into the tumbling water. Tug! A giant fish had me at its mercy. Whir-r-r! The reel screamed. Splash! The great fish left the water. Good-bye! The gut had parted, naturally. My eyes were opened. I soaked a stout cast thoroughly; I bended it to my line. I tied on another Pennell; I threw it in. Tug! Whir-r-r! Splash! as before; but the gut held, and we had at it. The fish did what he pleased with me. In that rush of water he ran out line in the manner of the fabled tarpon. I may have played him for fifteen seconds. Then he went into the seaweed—the bright, golden, tough, abundant seaweed—and then I went in after him and recovered my fly with some difficulty. And there my sport ended for the day, for not another rise had I. This was not to be borne. Next day, rather earlier on the ebb, I was there with a double-handed split-​cane, sixty yards of line, and stout gut. The sea-stream ran out furiously, and the fish came bravely. One, two, three, I rose and missed; four, I hooked. He jumped and was off. Five, I landed; 2½ lb. Six, I hooked, played, and lost. Seven, I landed; 2½ lb. Eight and nine, I rose. The casting was dead into the eye of a bright sun; there was no breath of wind, and I sweated and swore and had the best time of my life. For these were my first sea-trout. MacAlister sat on the rocks, smoked, and told me his opinion of my angling. But I cared very little. The discovery was made, and we knew when to tackle the sea-stream in future.
On the morrow MacAlister was set at them and I went down to receive instruction. MacAlister took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, lit a vast pipe, and entered the water. One, two, three, he rose, hooking and losing one of them. Four he landed; 2¾ lb. Five ran out thirty yards of line making, apparently, for Greenland, across the Arctic Sea. But MacAlister managed to turn him, and there they were, fish tugging away below MacAlister, MacAlister holding on for dear life, and biting into his pipe-stem deeper and deeper every moment. The trout had never shown himself (and I may add, never did show himself) and this circumstance has led MacAlister, ​ever since, to swear that he had to do with the father of all sea-trout. I gave him advice. I said: "Come out on to the shore. Bring the fish out of the fast water. Manœuvre him into that little bay below you. You must lose him if you let him hang on like that." MacAlister paid no attention to me, but pulled at his pipe till the bowl was ready to crack. After a time he said something about "too much seaweed," and something about "interfering fools," and then the fish broke upstream towards him, and his monologue ceased. He reeled in nimbly, and came out of the water. When the rod bent again, the fish was in the weed, and after hope had turned to conviction, and conviction had become despair, my poor friend waded in sadly, detached his fly, and set to work again, only to rise one fish, which he hooked and lost. I sat on the rocks—smoked, and told MacAlister my opinion of his angling. Presently, the tide ran down to a dribble, and we went home.
The Herr Dr. Oberhausen, to whom we related these things on his return from the slaughter of ryper, was more than impressed. He exhibited an intense animation. His eyes grew large and bright. He swore "by the holy poker" (what fire did it stir?), and "by the holy fly" (where did it buzz?), and several other objects of interest to the hagiographer, that he would be the death of some of ​those fish within twenty-four hours. Even the Adelphi were infected by his enthusiasm, and vowed, by such things as Oberhausen had left uninvoked, to attend the morrow's execution. These Adelphi shared our house, fed with us, played bridge with us, but were not of us. They were in no sense sportsmen. Indeed, their attitude towards all sport was that of Mr. Vandeleur towards Mr. Scrymgeour. They "regarded it with an indifference closely bordering on aversion," and they sought, at meals, to draw us from our talk of fish and tackle into discussion of the great models of English letters. Yet, if the divine spark was kindled for once in their bosoms, who shall say that they came to Norway in vain?
The flood-tide turned. For an hour the sea-stream flowed out calm and deep. Then on the far side a few dimples showed on the surface. This roughness extended, as the depth grew less. Another break came in the near side, lengthened in its turn till it met the first in midstream, and the V began to form. At this moment Oberhausen appeared on the bank, followed at a respectful distance by MacAlister and by me. Then came the Adelphi each with a Great Model under his arm. The spectators took up their positions upon neighbouring rocks, and Oberhausen set to work! I fear that our presence may have daunted ​him, for he said that in such a sun angling was folly, and affected a reluctance to begin. But when he dropped his flies on to the smooth, gliding surface, a yard from the inner side of the V, out from the foam came a great black fin, inspected the butcher and the red-and-teal, swam all round them, followed them down and across the stream, thought better of it and returned whence it had come. "Did you see that?" cried Oberhausen. Yes, we had undoubtedly seen that. "It's far too bright," said Oberhausen. We encouraged him to continue. He cast into the broken water, and a fish seized one of his flies with a rush. Oberhausen drove the hook home, ran his fish down into the calmer water, mastered him, netted him, and came to land; 4 lb.
"A fine fish," said Oberhausen. "Clean run." He pointed with pride to the obscene sea-lice which infested the trout. "I doubt it's too bright," he went on. "Aren't my flies too big?" "Go into the water," said I, as I poleaxed the fish with the handle of the net. "Go back into the water, and don't waste your breath in such foolishness. Heaven smiles on you. Deserve its smiles. To work!" The Adelphi now approached. "What is this fish?" asked Demea. "A pike?" "Nay," said Micio, "it is a John Dory." And they laughed. They could jest like that in the presence ​of a clean-run four-pounder. MacAlister and I had hardly laid the fish reverently to rest in the shade of a rock, when we heard Oberhausen's reel singing again. This fish took him far down and over his waders, and MacAlister had to go out to him with the net; 3½ lb. "I doubt," said I, as they came ashore, "I doubt your flies are too big." "Better give it up," said MacAlister. "It's folly to fish in such a sun. You will get no sport, Oberhausen."
But Oberhausen, the moment the hook was released, had bolted up to the top of the sea-stream. He was wasting no time now. Nor did the fish give him much breathing space, for the 3½-pounder was hardly dead ere the learned doctor was doing battle again. This fish plunged into a bed of weed, ran through it, and leaped into the air on the other side. But the gods fought for Oberhausen, the tackle held, and the fish scaled 3½ lb. Oh, sirs! The very Adelphi warmed up. There was no more talk of pike and John Dory. Perhaps at that moment they realised that there are joys in life which no study of the Great Models, however persistent, may yield. Micio said: "This is magnificent." "He's into another," said MacAlister. By this time Oberhausen was working like a machine. He ran his fish down its allotted fifty yards, turned it at the proper point, headed ​it into the calm little bay aforesaid, gave it the butt, and scooped it out with the net. This fourth fish, however, escaped at the third manual exercise, and the Adelphi lamented aloud, wondering that we cared so little. Of course, with three good fish on the bank, no one would grudge a fourth his life. But the Adelphi lacked experience. What they wanted now was to see the bank strewn with dead fishes. Oberhausen was fishing again. He wanted one more. And in five minutes he got it; 2½ lb. This was the end. The sea-stream had run down to nothing at all, the sea-trout had all gone over the bar into deep water, where fishing was out of the question. Oberhausen, that he might have nothing wherewith to reproach himself, gave it one more turn from top to bottom, and then we loaded up the basket and the net with the four fish (13½ lb. in all) and set our faces for home, with high resolves for the morrow.