THE SALMON AND THE KODAK
We had waited with exemplary patience for the dropping of the water.
There had been a fairly heavy flood during the last week in February,
but there would be no trouble with floating ice; that, at least, was a
comfort when one remembered the cruel sufferings from exposure of the
previous year. The Rowan Tree Pool is, in the early part of the spring
season, a sure find for a fish if you can but catch it in the humour.
The humour, however, does not last long, and you require to know that
pool with the intimacy of personal experience to hit it at the right
time; you have to study its countenance, and then, sooner or later, the
afternoon will arrive when you say "Thank the stars; she will be in
order to-morrow." This year the to-morrow when it did dawn admirably
suited the purpose of two friends of mine who were in temporary
possession of the Rowan Pool. Cold weather one takes as a matter of
course, grumbling not if the wind be moderate and mackintoshes remain
unstrapped.
The two points of congratulation were (1) that the pool was in perfect
height and colour; and (2) that the light was good. The first
condition was satisfactory for Grey, the angler, the second for Brown,
the kodakeer. And herein lurks a necessity for explanation. Grey had
one evening, at the Fly Fishers' Club, been much impressed with a
violent tirade from a member about the generally incorrect way in which
the ordinary black and white artist illustrates the fisherman in
action, and had listened attentively as a group round the fire argued
themselves into the conclusion that there was much more to be done with
the photographic snapshot in angling than had ever yet been attempted.
He looked about for a man of leisure who was an enthusiast with the
camera, and skilful enough to get his living with it, should fate ever
drive him to earning his bread and cheese. Such an amateur he at
length discovered in Brown, and these were the two who, by nine o'clock
in the morning, were at the head of the Rowan Pool; their plans
prearranged in every detail; both men in excellent form, head, body,
and spirit; and Burdock, the keeper, resigned to the innovation of
photography which he sniffingly flouted as a piece of downright
tomfoolery.
There was another character in the comedy of the day, a salmon fisher
of some repute for skill, but disliked for his selfishness, cynicism,
and overbearing assumption of mastership in the theory and practice of
fishing. As he was ever laying down the highest standards of sport
much was forgiven him. The men who used phantom, prawn, and worm,
however much and often they were made to writhe under his sneers, felt
that in maintaining the artificial fly as the only lure with which the
noble salmon should be tempted, he was on a lofty plane, and, if not
unassailable, had better be left there in his vain glory. They loved
him none the more, of course, and spun, prawned, and wormed as before,
honestly envying just a little the purist whose fly undoubtedly often
justified his claims. His beat was a mile higher up the river than the
Rowan Pool, and he is here introduced because on this morning Grey and
Brown gave him a lift in their wagonette, and dropped him at the larch
plantation so that he might, by the short cut of a woodland path,
attain the hut in the middle of his beat. Before climbing over the
stile he exhibited the big fly which he had selected as the likely
killer for the day, and offered Grey one if he preferred it. Grey,
however, had his own fancies, and declined with thanks; there was a
mutual chanting of "So long; tight lines," and the purist went off to
his hut and the rod which he kept there.
Brown, with his compact paraphernalia, was put across from the lower
end of the pool to the right bank. This was necessary for his share of
the day's work, which was to take snapshots of his friend operating
from the left shore. The fishing part of the Rowan Pool was directly
under a rocky cliff opposite, and the position for the kodakeer was a
clump of bushes on a small natural platform half-way down. From this
elevation he could look into the deep water where the salmon was
generally found, and could command the entire pool with his apparatus.
Grey's side was an easily-sloping shingle with firm foothold out of the
force of the stream, an assuring advantage to a man who had to wade
within a foot of his armpits.
"Are you there?" by and by shouted Grey, looking across to the bushy
ledge of the cliff. "Yes, and all ready," replied Brown, so well
concealed that the angler had to look twice to discover him. It was a
full water, and every cast that would send the fly to its place must be
close upon thirty yards. Whatever may be pretended to the contrary,
this is mighty fine throwing when it is done time after time; and Grey,
having fruitlessly fished his pool down twice with different flies,
waded ashore.
Had Brown seen sign of a fish? No, he had not. The fly had worked
beautifully over the best part of the pool, and fished every inch of
the run known to be the lie of the fish. Had Brown taken any good
shots? Yes; he had been snapping Grey ever since he entered the water.
"Then," said Grey, "I'll fish the pool below, and give you an hour's
spell. If you move, do it as quietly as you can." "All right," said
the kodakeer; "it is not very cold; I'll have a smoke and a read, and
won't move at all unless I get cramped or frozen."
Brown enjoyed his book, suffering no sort of discomfort; he lazily
smoked his pipe and thought how much better it was to be listening to
the twitter of the birds, watching the clouds of rooks wheeling over
the distant wood, and resting in peace, than slaving with an 18-ft. rod
and straining every muscle in the effort to dispatch the unheeded fly
across the big water to the core of the pool (for fishing purposes)
under the cliff. Then, down out of sight went his meerschaum, for
beyond the stile appeared the face of the great purist, who looked
cautiously around, stepped stealthily over, laid down his rod, walked a
little down stream to a point whence he could see the half-visible
figure of Grey very clear in the noonday light in the water of the next
pool. Then he returned and waded in to fish the Rowan.
"Here's a chance for the Kodak," muttered the witness, shrinking into
cover, and scarcely breathing lest his hiding-place should be revealed.
The purist was too intent upon his design of fishing another man's pool
once down, without loss of time, to look about him carefully. The
coast was so obviously clear. Brown therefore took snapshots, a round
dozen, of what followed: (1) A fisherman armed with a 12-ft. spinning
rod, wading into the water at the precise bit of shingle previously
trodden by Grey; (2) a guilty-looking man, looking up and down stream
before making the first cast of a full-sized blue phantom; (3) the act
of casting, well done, and dropping the bait in the exact place
required; (4) the steady winding in of the line with the rod-point kept
low; (5) the phantom and its triangles dangling a yard from the
rod-point in mid-air, in pause for a fresh cast; (6) the bend of the
rod as a hooked fish set the winch a-scream; (7) the figure of a
dripping salmon curved in a fine leap out of water; (8) the retreat of
the purist to dry shingle, playing the fish the while with a cool,
strong hand; (9) the tailing out of the fish (with a backward view of
the fisherman); (10) the slaying of the salmon with a blow from a
pebble on the back of the head; (11) attention to tackle and removal of
phantom, fish lying in background; (12) disappearance of the purist
over the stile, dead fish suspended by the right hand, hanging for a
moment on near side as fisherman clambered down the off side of stile.
The three men met later at the rendezvous for the wagonette. Grey and
Brown were waiting in a state of suppressed hilarity as the other
emerged from the plantation, placidly carrying his salmon by a piece of
looped cord.
"Any sport?" he asked. Grey explained that he had had none--not a rise
all day. Yet he had fished the Rowan Pool carefully twice down, and
the other pool also.
"What did he take?" asked Brown, pointing to the bright little
10-pounder. The purist did not trouble to reply in words; he merely
pointed to the fly left in the mouth of the fish.
"My fingers were numbed," he said presently in a casual sort of way;
"and, as the gut broke off at the head, I just left it there."
There was a touch of suspicion, not to say alarm, in the look of
amazement with which the purist received the shrieks of laughter which
simultaneously burst from the other two.
"Pardon me," at length spluttered Brown, "but it is so dashed funny."
Then Grey exploded again, and the purist looked from one to the other.
"Well, well, come along," Brown said at last. There was not a word
spoken during the drive. The echoes were awakened once, on the brow of
the last hill, by the kodakeer, who, without any apparent cause,
exploded with laughter and held his sides. "Pardon me," he remarked,
"but it really is--Oh, lord, hold me!" (Explosion renewed.)
Before alighting at the porch of the hotel, Brown called a halt as the
other two rose to step down from the wagonette. "Let me take a last
shot, please! Do you mind holding the fish up for a moment?" asked he.
Snap! and the thing was done.
"Thanks awfully," said the operator. "That's my thirteenth shot. Oh,
lord, but it _is_ so funny." And the welkin rang with what seemed to
be the mirth of a lunatic. Then Brown wiped the moisture from his eyes
and recovered his breath.
"Shall we wet your salmon inside?" asked Grey, very quietly, and with a
seriousness not obviously germane to a festive occasion.
"Certainly, why not?" answered its captor, much puzzled.
The three men, the door being shut by Grey, after the maid had left the
room, drank to each other. "You'll take that fly out before you send
the salmon away," said Grey suavely.
"Why should I?" curtly answered the culprit, by this time white-faced
enough.
"Well," was the reply, "I'll say nothing about your sneaking down and
fishing my pool when my back was turned, nor even about your poaching
my fish with a big phantom; but we can't have you make it the text of a
discourse on the virtues of fly fishing."
"The fact is," added Brown, "I have thirteen snapshots of the whole
business, and if they develop as I expect they will, they will make an
admirable series under the general title of 'Spinning for Salmon in the
Rowan Pool.' I began with you as you waded in, and finished with you
holding up the poached fish with the fly in its mouth. As Grey says,
we'll forgive you the rest, but can't stand the fly. That means
hypocrisy as well as lying."
The purist was wise enough to say never a word. He jerked out and
retained the fly, left the salmon on the floor, walked softly out, and
had vanished by next day.