My
rod was jerked clean off the bank, and careered away down-stream so fast
that I had to run hard to get level with it. Here was work indeed, and at
that joyous moment I would not have changed places with Jack Dobson.
Without ado, I jumped into the river, waded out, recovered the butt of my
rod, and struck.
"As big as a gate-post." Joe was right. As I struck, the jack came to the
surface. The great stretch of yellow belly and the monstrous length of
vicious snout made my heart leap for joy. I would rather land him than
command a regiment. My rod bent to a sickle as I fought him, giving him
line and pulling in, again, again, and again. A dozen times I saw the
black bars on his shimmering back as he came at me, evil in his red-rimmed
eyes and danger in his cruel teeth, but the stout tackle stood it out.
Sweat poured off my forehead though I was up to the waist in ice-cold
water. Inch by inch I fought my way to the bank, and then fought on again
to get close to the bridge, where I could scramble out.
Probably I was half an hour in getting him there, but at last, by giving
him suddenly a dozen yards of loose line to go at, I was able to climb on
to the bank and check him before he got across to the stumps of the reeds.
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