That was over him! I let the fly float down, working it
scientifically. No response. Perhaps better look at the fly. Just my
luck, I have cracked it off!
Where is the fly-book? Where indeed? A feverish search for the
fly-book follows--no use: it is not in the basket, it is not in my
pocket; must have fallen out when I fell into the river. No good in
looking for it, the water is too thick, I _thought_ I heard a splash.
Luckily there are some flies in my cap, it looks knowing to have
some flies in one's cap, and it is not so easy to lose a cap, without
noticing it, as to lose most things. Here is a big Silver Doctor that
may do as the water is thick. I put one on, and begin again casting
over where that fish rose. By George, there he came at me, at least
I think it must have been at me, a great dark swirl, "the purple wave
bowed over it like a hill," but he never touched me. Give him five
minutes law, the hook is sure to be well fastened on, need not bother
looking at that again. Five minutes take a long time in passing, when
you are giving a salmon a rest.
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