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,
