California was further up the reach,and with the corner of my eye I could see him casting with long casts and much skill.Then he struck,and my fish broke for the weir in the same instant,and down the reach we came,California and I,reel answering reel even as the morning stars sing together.

The first wild enthusiasm of capture had died away.We were both at work now in deadly earnest to prevent the lines fouling,to stall off a down-stream rush for shaggy water just above the weir,and at the same time to get the fish into the shallow bay down-stream that gave the best practicable landing.Portland bid us both be of good heart,and volunteered to take the rod from my hands.

I would rather have died among the pebbles than surrender my right to play and land a salmon,weight unknown,with an eight-ounce rod.I heard California,at my ear,it seemed,gasping:"He's a fighter from Fightersville,sure!"as his fish made a fresh break across the stream.I saw Portland fall off a log fence,break the overhanging bank,and clatter down to the pebbles,all sand and landing-net,and I dropped on a log to rest for a moment.As I drew breath the weary hands slackened their hold,and I forgot to give him the butt.

A wild scutter in the water,a plunge,and a break for the head-waters of the Clackamas was my reward,and the weary toil of reeling in with one eye under the water and the other on the top joint of the rod was renewed.Worst of all,I was blocking California's path to the little landing bay aforesaid,and he had to halt and tire his prize where he was.

"The father of all the salmon!"he shouted."For the love of Heaven,get your trout to bank,Johnny Bull!"But I could do no more.Even the insult failed to move me.The rest of the game was with the salmon.He suffered himself to be drawn,skip-ping with pretended delight at getting to the haven where I would fain bring him.Yet no sooner did he feel shoal water under his ponderous belly than he backed like a torpedo-boat,and the snarl of the reel told me that my labor was in vain.A dozen times,at least,this happened ere the line hinted he had given up the battle and would be towed in.He was towed.The landing-net was useless for one of his size,and Iwould not have him gaffed.I stepped into the shallows and heaved him out with a respectful hand under the gill,for which kindness he battered me about the legs with his tail,and I felt the strength of him and was proud.California had taken my place in the shallows,his fish hard held.I was up the bank lying full length on the sweet-scented grass and gasping in company with my first salmon caught,played and landed on an eight-ounce rod.My hands were cut and bleeding,I was dripping with sweat,spangled like a harlequin with scales,water from my waist down,nose peeled by the sun,but utterly,supremely,and consummately happy.