Baker had a short, thick stick in his hand. From the end of the stick
hung a thick piece of whipcord. On the end of the cord he had a stone
with a hole in it, what we, as children, used to call a lucky stone.
Just above the stone he had tied a skinned pigeon--the whole bird. Hooks
radiated in every direction from the bird; hooks set at every
conceivable angle--dozens of hooks. From time to time Baker threw a few
breadcrumbs at his bait. I could plainly see the small fish cluster
round. Now and then he struck sharply. Nearly every time he fouled a
small fish, mostly under the jaw or in the belly. Each time he hooked a
fish he repeated: "My lad, you shouldn't fish; you should angle."
When we reached the Gwai River, Baker produced a long hand-line with an
immense hook on the end of it. The bait he used was a lump of washing
soap. I didn't go with him because I wasn't ready and he was impatient
to begin.
"We shall catch big barbles here," said Baker.
I followed him, and saw him throw his lump of soap well out into the
river. I stood on the bank above and watched.
Baker lit his pipe, looked up and down the river, and at his line. Then
he shifted the line to his left hand, which he lifted to his left ear.
With his right he made a winding movement close to his head, and said:
"'Ullo! Exchange; put me on to Mr. Barble, please, miss."
To my intense amusement, and to Baker's obvious surprise, there was a
sharp tug at the line. He remained for a while with his hand suspended
near his right ear as though still on the handle of the old-fashioned
telephone instrument. Then he gave a violent strike. But the barble--if
indeed it was a barble--had had time to spit out the piece of soap and
so escape.
Baker, still unaware of my presence, said: "Damn the fellow!" He shifted
the line to his right hand, and went through the pantomime of getting on
to the Exchange again, this time ringing with his left hand.
"'Ullo! Is that you, Exchange? Put me on to Mr. Barble again, please,
miss."
No response from the fish.
"'Ullo! Exchange! What? No answer from Mr. Barble? Gone to lunch, eh?"
I moved off quietly up the river, and in course of time succeeded in
catching a mud-fish weighing forty-eight pounds. I came back a couple of
hours later, and found Baker had landed two immense fish of the same
kind; one weighed fifty-three pounds and the other fifty-nine. He had
also caught a poisonous looking eel. How he had landed these monsters he
would not tell me; he contented himself with repeating: "My lad, you
mustn't fish; you must angle."
When we reached the Zambesi, Baker almost neglected his cattle. He had
never seen this grand river before. He at once got out a line and went
"angling."
Coming down the river bank, I saw Baker standing on a rock a few yards
from the bank.
Sitting on the bank was an old man, watching him.
"Any luck?" said I.
"No."
"Been here long?"
"Not very long, but that old man talks too much to please me."
I looked down at the old man. He looked up at me. He greeted me in the
local language. In his language I replied. Whereupon he calmly said: "I
have been telling that white man that from the rock on which he stands a
crocodile took a woman yesterday."
I hurriedly translated. Baker did no more angling that day! He thought
the old man had been saying "How do you do?" to him.
In the end we converted Baker to our way of fishing, so that he became
an expert spinner and killed many a noble tiger-fish. But he had a
mishap the first day he used a rod which almost decided him not to use
one again. He was fishing from the bank for bream, which run large in
that part of the river. He used a float for the first time. Presently
his float disappeared. Baker struck upwards, using both hands. He pulled
his fish out of the water, but with such force that it flew over his
head and fell with a splash into a pond behind--free.
I think we just saved him from an immediate return to "angling" by
pretending not to have seen his discomfiture.