portland had no rod.he held the gaff and the whiskey.
california sniffed up-stream and down-stream,across the racing water,chose his ground,and let the gaudy fly drop in the tail of a riffle.i was getting my rod together,when i heard the joyous shriek of the reel and the yells of california,and three feet of living silver leaped into the air far across the water.
the forces were engaged.
the salmon tore up-stream,the tense line cutting the water like a tide-rip behind him,and the light bamboo bowed to breaking.
what happened thereafter i cannot tell.california swore and prayed,and portland shouted advice,and i did all three for what appeared to be half a day,but was in reality a little over a quarter of an hour,and sullenly our fish came home with spurts of temper,dashes head on and sarabands in the air,but home to the bank came he,and the remorseless reel gathered up the thread of his life inch by inch.we landed him in a little bay,and the spring weight in his gorgeous gills checked at eleven and one half pounds.eleven and one half pounds of fighting salmon!we danced a war-dance on the pebbles,and california caught me round the waist in a hug that went near to breaking my ribs,while he shouted:--"partner!partner!this is glory!now you catch your fish!twenty-four years i've waited for this!"i went into that icy-cold river and made my cast just above the weir,and all but foul-hooked a blue-and-black water-snake with a coral mouth who coiled herself on a stone and hissed male-dictions.