eel,
even as the morning stars sung 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
downstream rush for deep water just above the weir, and at the same time
to get the fish into the shallow bay downstream that gave the best
practicable landing. Portland bade 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 the right to play and land my first
salmon, weight unknown, on 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 hot 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 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, skipping with
pretended delight at getting to the haven where I fain would have 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 that 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 I would 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 on the bank lying full length on the sweet-scented grass, gasping in
company with my first salmon caught, played, and landed on an
eight-ounce rod. My hands were cut