"JACK."
THE upper waters of the Bourne and Test flow through Hurstbourne, Lord
Portsmouth's beautiful park, and were tenanted until a few years ago by
portly trout of aldermanic weight and size. It was found, however, that
they proved too costly to be retained, as the toll they took of the
smaller fish was prodigious, and out of proportion to their value. They
were accordingly captured by degrees, and replaced by a more numerous
colony of smaller fish. It used to be a grand sight to watch the big
fellows lying in the quick water near the big stone bridge, or chasing
the pounders with angry rushes.
When I knew the water, some ten or twelve years ago, there were still a
few of these goodly-proportioned fish remaining. They were well-known,
and each one had his nickname. Thus one was known as "Jack"; he
almost invariably lay in a narrow outlet to a culvert that led the
surplus water from the pool above under the roadway into the pool
below the bridge. For the greater portion of its length the water ran
underground, emerging from the culvert some two or three yards from the
river. The ground on either side at the end of the culvert was fully
three feet above the water, the banks being nearly vertical, while
the stream at the culvert's mouth was only about a foot wide. In this
narrow gully or channel lay Jack, his nose being only a few inches from
the masonry. Any unwary footfall speedily dislodged him from his little
bay into the main stream, but by crawling up warily he could be seen
and admired.
Many had tried to secure him by fair fishing, but though once or twice
hooked he had so far got off scot free. Nor was his post an easy one to
attack; the water was, of course, gin-clear, very narrow, and also very
shallow. The slightest sign of gut--and he was off.
On a lovely summer morning--to be accurate, the 26th of June, 1893--my
dear old friend Harry Maxwell and I had fished up from the bee-hive,
past the cascade, and were nearing the bridge with rather more than
average success, and had decided to eat our luncheon on the bankside,
under the friendly shade of the bridge. It was, however, barely
half-past twelve--too early, we agreed, for lunch--so Maxwell went up a
little to fish the shallow above, and I elected to have a try for Jack,
as I had reconnoitred and found him to be occupying his accustomed
corner. As the river was rather low, and as bright as only a chalk
stream can be, I decided to break through my general rule and put on
two lengths of the finest drawn gut, feeling that in this instance any
natural gut, however fine, would be out of the question.
I was careful to draw the gut through a bunch of weed, to diminish the
glare; the Whitchurch dun was on the water, and its counterfeit had
already secured us some fair fish, but for some reason or other I was
impelled to select a small 000 pale watery dun, called the Driffield
dun, for my lure. After carefully testing my line and cast I waded out
into the heavy stream, opposite to and commanding the outlet of Jack's
bay.
Knowing that there was little hope of dropping my fly at the desired
spot without giving my friend a glimpse of the gut, after a preliminary
cast or two, to make sure of my distance, I sent off my fly on its
errand, intending to pitch it on the grass just above the culvert. The
first cast, fortunately, went right, and by a gentle tap or two on the
butt of my rod I dislodged the fly from the grass, and it fluttered
down airily in front of Master Jack, the fine gut never having touched
the water. No sooner had it done so than Jack had it. Fortunately
I did not strike too hard, as one is so liable to do under such
circumstances; just the requisite turn of the wrist and the small hook
went home.
Before I had time to realise fully what had happened the fish had
bolted from his holt into the main stream, a bag of unavoidable line
behind him as he charged straight towards me. On regaining touch with
him I found that the hook had still firm hold, and that Jack was
boring up for the bridge in the heavy water. Naturally, I had no idea
of allowing him to thread his way up through the arch, as I could ill
follow him there, so I had to keep up as steady and strong a strain as
I dared. He soon had enough of that fun, and down he came at express
speed past me, leaving me to get in my line by hand as best I could.
By good luck, I was able to get the slack reeled up whilst Jack was
careering about in the broader water below me. Hardly had I done so
when, at the end of his run, he gave a grand leap, after the fashion of
a sea trout; a dip of rod-point to his majesty saved a catastrophe, and
I now began to try to reach terra firma. My friend, however, was not
at all disposed to give me much time for such an operation, and just
as I was trying to regain the bank--a sufficiently ticklish operation
with a wild fish held only by the finest of drawn gut--he made a most
determined rush for the big bed of flags below the bridge. Once let him
attain that stronghold and I was fairly done; so I had once more to
test my gut, and resolutely to determine that he should obey my will.
Better be broke at once than lose him in that weed bed. Once more he
gave way, and I was able to regain the bank. At that moment Maxwell
turned up for luncheon, and the fish, now absolutely beaten, was
successfully netted out. I found that in his mad rushes and gyrations
he had managed to get two full turns of the gut round his gills. This
no doubt accounted for his coming to bank so speedily. He weighed just
over 3¼ lb.--no great monster after all, you may ejaculate, but he was
about the most perfect specimen of a trout I have ever seen, and was
in the pink of condition. He now graces my study in a glass case, the
only specimen of a fish that I have ever set up. But there was some
justification for this temporary mental aberration, and I often now
look at him and recall his sporting end, and the difficult conditions
under which I managed to capture him. He carries back my mind to the
fond recollections of my old friend, now no more, one of the best and
most unselfish of anglers, whose untimely loss has left a blank among
his many friends that cannot be filled.
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