Chapter 7. Fisherman's Billy

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter seven of An Angler's Hours by Hugh Tempest Sharingham.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter seven
Fisherman Billy, as long as my boat, says Old Billy, firmly,
looking with pride upon the great pool at our feet.

(00:22):
We have been speaking of a certain legendary carp that
lend romance to the place. Old Billy, it appears, has
from time to time seen a colossal tail threshing the surface,
and he will not permit himself to estimate the weight
of the body to which it belongs. Old Billy is

(00:44):
one of those grandly untruthful persons who will not occupy
themselves with the smallest statistics at all. The carp are
undoubtedly there. They are numerous, and they are as long
as Old Billy's boat. That is the thread of his discourse,
unraveled from the tangle of metaphor and illustration. You can't

(01:09):
catch him, is his impolite conclusion, Nor can nobody. Is
his afterthought, dictated probably from interested motives, For have I not,
on sundry occasions given the old villain the wherewithal to
buy beer? Even Old Billy recognizes the unwisdom of particular

(01:30):
charges of inefficiency against the person who, for the time
being represents a day's wage of unknown quantity. However, I
am not prepared to quarrel with his assertion, partly because
I have never been able of set purpose to catch
carp anywhere, and partly because I am not quite convinced

(01:51):
that these particular carp have existents other than theoretical. Twice
have I been within measurable distance of belief. Once when
fishing for bream with a bunch of Lyylva blue bottles
politely known as gentles in politely known as maggots, and
I hooked something irresistible which ran out all the line

(02:16):
and destroyed it at leisure in the depths. Once again
when a stout new salmon cast parted like cotton on
the strike. But these events are of now distant past,
and time has induced wiser incredulity. Probably in both cases
I hooked a pike, a circumstance that often precedes angling misfortune.

(02:39):
On this sharp winter morning, it is somewhat out of
place to speak of carp, and but for Old Billy
I should not have done so, for we are intent
on pike and pike only Old Billy, however, must always
ease his mind on that subject. In some obscure way,

(02:59):
he seemed to think his own credit and reputation greatly
increased by the presence in the pool of fish, which
are enormous and uncatchable. Possibly too, he has some unrecognized
vein of poetry in him which finds vent in frequent
allusion to the wonders of the deep. Having dismissed the carp, however,

(03:21):
he brings the punt round to the landing stage without
further delay, and points with pride to the live bait
in the bucket. Finer live bait, he said, you could
not see anywhere money, in fact could not buy them,
conceding the point as one which hardly demands emphasis. For

(03:42):
Old Billy caught the live bait himself, and I fish
with him before I get into the punt and instruct
him to push off. The pool is some eighty yards
in width and some one hundred and twenty in length,
and it is in parts very deep, bottomless into Old Billy.
The great river which forms it here plunges over we

(04:05):
are beams for the last time before it joins a
river still greater, a mile lower down, and it celebrates
its last victory over the obstacles opposed to it by
man in a fine turmile of foam. Then the main
current sweeps grandly across the pool to its channel below,

(04:25):
leaving behind it two enormous eddies, one on each side.
A finer pool for pike fishing would be impossible to conceive.
The bottom is all of gravel, and the supply of
fish seems inexhaustible, no matter how many may be caught.
One day, the next finds the pool restarted, for it

(04:47):
is the mecha of all the pike in many miles
of the parent river. Of this fact, Old Billy is
well aware, and he regards the fish from a base,
matter of fact point of view. His avowed object is
always to kill as many as he can. That is
why he desired me to fish with trimmers to day,

(05:09):
a suggestion which I sternly put away. Trimmers are, in
the first place, an abomin nation. In the second place,
they are large discs of cork, painted on the one
side white and on the other red. A stick runs
through them, and a line is wound round them, and
they are sent out with a live bait to fish

(05:31):
by themselves, with the white side uppermost. When a pike
takes the bait, the tremor turns over and turns red
blushes for shame. In fact, then you go and chase
it in a boat. The use of these things is reprehensible.
But no, on second thoughts, I will not speak of

(05:53):
the fascination of the game. I will merely denounce them,
and so leave them in his heart. Old Billy despises
me for sticking to the rod as a good sportsman ought.
But fish, he admits, we shall probably catch, for the
water is right and the weather. There were a few

(06:13):
degrees of frost last night, and it is still cold.
The amiable red sun that is now well up will
make it a little less cold presently, but not much
this December day. He is more for ornament than use.
The air, however, is dry, and there is no wind.

(06:35):
This is the cold that makes one vigorous and does
not induce shivering fits. It is, in short, as fair
a day for winter fishing as could be wished. Old
Billy paddles the punt out to the marks. If I
may borrow a term from those that go down to
the sea in ships, and sticks in his ripecks just

(06:55):
at the head of the father Eddy for some unexplained
most of the pike inhabit this part of the pool.
It may be that the other eddy has less movement
and consequently has accumulated a little mud. At any rate,
nine tenths of the pike taken in the pool are

(07:15):
hooked in this eddy, and here we accordingly fish. I
have a somewhat childish liking for a beautiful float, and
the one I mean to use is large and fat,
its upper part to rich crimson, and it's lower a
deep green. I'm well aware that it is conspicuous, and

(07:37):
that the complete angler would be ashamed to attach a
thing so monstrous to his line. Yet it is not
so large as a trimmer, and its ruddy and cheerful
countenance always seem emblematic of hope, even when the fish
are least in the humor. Equally ruddy and cheerful are
the three little pilot floats, which are fast and above

(08:00):
the other at intervals of eighteen inches. They are used
ostensibly to keep the line from sinking, but really for
esthetic effect. The line will not sink because it has
been world greased in the manner known to dry fly fishermen.
But the floats look pretty as they follow the big
one in an obedient row. If the rod were long enough,

(08:23):
I should use more. Old Billy would not understand my
refined pleasure in these minute things, so I do not
trouble to explain them to him. Instead, I dangle the
snap tackle before him that he may put on a
dace from the bucket. While the floats are traveling down
the eddy, I have leisure to consider his appearance with

(08:46):
more care. He's a very small man and extremely ancient,
clean shaven and with a face wrinkled like a winter apple.
Yet small, ancient and wrinkled though he be. He can
paddle a heavy boat against a strong stream, can lend
a hand with the sains when the salmon are running

(09:07):
up from the sea, can pull up his eel traps
no mean test of strength, and can carry a bucket
full of water or fish as well as many a
younger man. He is an astonishing example of what an
open air life will do for a sound constitution. He
will never see seventy again, though his age is a

(09:28):
matter of speculation, merely he himself is not informed on
the point. As far as I can ascertain, his principal
article of nutrition is beer, and though he does not
stint himself therein one would hardly think it a wholesome
form of diet. Yet here he sits this cold day,
clad only in his blue jersey, patched trousers and rubber boots,

(09:53):
as hale and hearty as can be. Only once have
I known him to be ill. He met him outside
his favorite house of call, looking thoughtful and somewhat troubled.
Questioned as to the reason of his dejection, he complained
somewhat bitterly that the doctor had knocked him off his bier.

(10:15):
I inquired why, and Old Billy said that the doctor
had called it pneumonia, had prescribed bed and simple fare,
and generally trampled heedlessly on all the patient's convictions. He
had even said that Old Billy would die if he
did not obey orders. I strongly advised him to fall

(10:37):
in with the doctor's views if he could see his
way to do so, and to soften the unpleasing counsel,
gave him something for luxuries. He said he would think
about it, and so soon as I was out of sight,
proceeded to do so. In the public house, he consumed
a regal quantity of his favorite beverage and apparently drove

(11:01):
out the pneumonia. Since then he has had the poorest
opinion of the medical profession. He's under a master, says
Old Billy, suddenly recalling me from my scrutiny of himself.
Sure enough, the big float has disappeared, and the pilots
are also vanishing. One by one. I wind in the

(11:22):
slack line and tighten on the fish, which I can
tell at once is only a small one. He fights
gamely enough for his size, but a two pound jack
is quickly mastered, and very soon he is over Old
Billy's great landing net and lifted into the punt. The
hooks are taken out without trouble, and I examine them

(11:44):
to see that they have taken no hurt from the
jack's sharp teeth. Suddenly I hear a sound of thumping,
and looking up, find that Old Billy is beating the
unhappy little fish on the head with a bottle, the
instrument he commonly employs for dispatching pike. This is annoying.
I fully intended to put the little fellow back, for

(12:07):
he is two pounds short of the size which I
consider adequate. This, I explain with vigor and command the
miscreant to release his prey and return it to the water.
Old Billy gives a final decisive blow, and then, regarding
the inanimate corpse with satisfaction, observes that it is too late.

(12:30):
He has a theory that it is fatal to success
to return the first fish of the day, however small.
This he explains at length, giving instances of the lamentable
results of such weakness that have come under his notice.
His practice, I regret to say, is to kill the
small fish that come later in the day. Also, I've

(12:53):
seen him in the proud possession of dead pike that
could not have weighed a single pound. Full of this,
I give him very solemn warning of what will happen
if he does it again, and then turn to the fishing. Presently,
there is another run which results in the capture of
a second pike of small dimensions. This is rescued from

(13:17):
the bottle with difficulty. Then for a full hour the
float works round and round the eddy, down the mainstream,
and even round the other eddy without a touch. Old
Billy snorts and reminds me that he prophesied as much
when I returned the second fish of the day. It

(13:39):
is particularly unlucky to return the second fish of the day.
It certainly does look as though something was wrong. It
is now near midday, and two runs from little fish
or all I can boast of. Moreover, there is no
time to waste. It will be dark by four, and
if I am to show anything like a decent basket,

(14:01):
I must work for it. Requesting Old Billy to modify
his croaking, I really and then take off the floats
and snap tackle, replacing them by a spinning trace weighed
with a heavy lead. My companions poor scorn on the
idea of spinning, I shall catch nothing. Thus I might

(14:25):
possibly have caught something worth having with live bait if
that fish had not been returned. As it is, I
shall catch nothing. Anyhow, The idea seems to fill old
Billy with melancholy pleasure, in spite of the fact that
there is a price on the head of every pike
over five pounds killed by me this day. The old

(14:48):
man is often like this. If the mood seizes him,
he will not prophesy good concerning his clients, but evil.
I ascribe this to his having found once a dead
human body in the river, a proud occurrence which is
one of the landmarks of his life. Whenever he thinks
of it, he becomes solemn and prophesies evil in a

(15:12):
tone of befitting seriousness. Afterwards, he will, if allowed, relate
the incident, dwelling with unction on the more gruesome details.
I do not encourage the Charnel house talk, however, but
request him to put a bait on the spinning flight
for me. This he does extremely well, in spite of

(15:35):
his contempt for my policy. Many decades of wicked life
have taught him all there is to know about catching fish,
and he is unrivaled at getting the perfect curve on
a spinning bait, an art that many fishermen never acquire
at all. Practice will not do it alone. An unerring

(15:56):
hand is needed as one of nature's gifts, and you
may to arrange the hooks right instinctively at the first attempt,
or your trouble will be in vain. There can be
no revision of your work, or you will destroy both
bait and temper, and in the end produce nothing better
than an unseemly wobble. Old Billy's bait spins beautifully, as

(16:21):
can be seen by trying it close to the boat
with a short line. Now, I pull about thirty yards
of lyne off the wheel and coil it on the
floor of the punt with some care, so that there
shall be no kinking. Kinking is one of the curses
of the pipe fisher's lot, but with reasonable precaution it

(16:44):
can be avoided. When one is in a boat, one
ought never to be troubled by it. The principal things
to ensure are a clear space for the coils of line,
well away from rollocks, ores and other in drances, a
sufficiency of swivels on the trace, and last, and the

(17:06):
most important, some power of self restraint. The bait must
be swung and not hurled. Swing it quite gently, and
it will travel in immense distance by its own weight.
Picking the line up cleanly and gradually as it goes,
my thirty yards of line run out without let or hindrance.

(17:28):
And then, after giving the baita second or two to
sink nearly to the bottom, I begin to draw it in,
working it slowly with the rod between each drawer of
the left hand. In deep water, one can hardly spin
too slowly. Old Billy watches with a cynical eye. Mister Jones,

(17:51):
he observes, can throw his bait fifty or sixty yards.
Evidently the dead body is still in his mind, and
the tribute to mister Jones is not so important as
it might seem. If the positions were reversed, and I
was in the counting house while mister Jones was in
the punt, I doubt not that the fifty or sixty

(18:12):
yards would be placed. To my credit, thirty yards are
sufficient for the day at any rate. Before the bait
has traveled ten it is checked, and I have that
supreme sensation which makes spinning for pike so fascinating, the
sensation of being in contact with some mysterious power in

(18:34):
the depths. It is not in the least like the
sudden plunge of a large trout. The feeling, for the
first second or two is though the river bed had
suddenly become animate and had grasped the bait in firm hands.
A kind of electric thrill is communicated from the fish

(18:54):
to the fisherman and informs him at once that he
is not fast in stumpole weed. Occasionally, it is true,
he may for an instant think that a weed is
a fish, but the real thing is never to be mistaken.
After the first few seconds of resistance, the pike begins
to realize his predicament, and he fights in sullen wrath

(19:18):
for quite a long time. I cannot recover any lion,
and even have to concede some yards as he bores
steadily out into the strong current. The firm strain tells, however,
at last, and I get him after several rushes, nearly
up to the boat, till his olive back is visible
about three feet below the surface. The sight of the punt, however,

(19:43):
rouses him to new efforts. Down he goes again with
tremendous power, and is under us before I can realize it.
In a second he will be round one of the
rye pecks and free as water. In these circumstances, there
is but one thing to do. I plunge the point
of the rod right down into the water and hold

(20:05):
him as hard as I possibly can. Now he must
either break or yield, and fortunately he chooses or cannot
but choose to yield. He is brought back to the
right side. The net is under him in an instant,
and he is in the boat as pretty as seven

(20:25):
pounder as could be seen in a year's fishing. He
is short and thick, his olive sides touched with a
hint of yellow. A typical winter pike. He will eat,
I give my word for it, as well as any
spring salmon. He has taken a minute for each of
his seven pounds to land, which gives some idea of

(20:47):
his fighting qualities. It has been my experience the pike
of between seven and ten pounds often give more sport
than far heavier fish. They play with more dash. As
a rule, a big pike seems to make the error
not unknown among big nations, of underrating the forces opposed

(21:09):
to him. But he has not the advantages possessed by
them of being able to learn from his mistakes. Old
Billy has by now used his bottle with effect, and
is looking at me without guile. Didn't I say you'd
catch something, master, he demands. The incident of the dead

(21:30):
body has faded from his memory, and he is sanguine
once more. The next thought is luncheon, which we must
consume in haste for only another hour or two of
daylight remain, and I hope to catch at least another
brace of fish. Old Billy declines to trifle with sandwiches.
He has obeyed my instructions to provide himself with what

(21:53):
he needs, and he indicates the half gallon jar, which
is his constant companion on fishing excursions. I'm glad to see, however,
that he has also brought some bread and cheese. While
we eat, he relates various marvels that he has seen
and known. His favorite story is of the enthusiastic fisherman

(22:14):
and the great pike, which is supposed to have its
home in the river above the weir. The usual way
of fishing the river is to trail a spinning bait
forty or fifty yards behind a boat, and in the
course of a day five or six miles of water
will be covered twice. The great pike in question was

(22:35):
said to live in a deep reed line reach about
four miles away, and was estimated at twenty pounds well.
One day, old Billy was rowing the boat with two
fishermen in it, who have made up their minds to
catch the big one. The weather was just right, the
baits were all that could be wished, All things were favorable.

(22:59):
As the boat to approach the monster's haunt, all hearts
beat more quickly, and when just in the right place,
one of the rods bent to a heavy weight. The
excitement was intense. Backwards and forwards across the river surged
the fish, fighting with great power, though not with the

(23:22):
dash of salmon, and all three were convinced that they
had got him at last. Old Billy is of opinion
that it was some hours before they got the enemy
up to the boat, but that is probably an exaggeration.
Up to the boat they got it eventually, however, and
even then it could not be seen, nor could the

(23:44):
angler force it to the surface. Old Billy fortunately had
his biggest landing necked, a monstrous thing four feet in
diameter with a long pole as a handle, and he
determined to try and scoop the fish out. To his joy,
he succeeded in netting it, and then the united efforts

(24:06):
of the three were brought to bear, and they lifted
out an enormous fish kettle. The utensil had been caught
in the handle by one of the triangles, and had
naturally offered a great resistance to the rod, swinging from
side to side in the current in the most lifelike way.

(24:27):
If the angler had not been using the strongest of tackle,
he would never have landed it. Even Old Billy was deceived,
he admits, and even went so far as to look
for the fish inside the kettle, but it was not there.
By this time we have made an end of eating,
and I begin to fish again. But curiously enough, the

(24:49):
spinning dace attracts no more pike to the net, though
I get one half hearted run from a small fish
which just touches the bait and leaves it. A precious
hour is spent in vain, and I can see that
Old Billy's mind, for lack of occupation, is traveling back
to the dead body once more. Soon he will begin

(25:13):
to croak. This must be averted somehow, and I try
a new device, which has often served me well in
this pool. Before taking off the gimp trace, I replace
it by another of stout gut, and attached there too
a devon minnow, of a nondescript yellow coloring and two

(25:34):
and a half inches long. Old Billy, of course protests,
assuring me that them things is no good. But perseverance
is at once justified, for I get a nice five
pound fish at the second cast. Thereupon Old Billy asks
me again to remember that he said I should catch

(25:56):
fish to day before very long I am fast in enough,
which is also safely landed, but which has unfortunately played
havoc with the bait. The sharp teeth have practically destroyed
the dressing of the hooks, and it would not be
safe to trust the chances of a third encounter. I
have not another devin of the right size and color

(26:18):
in my box, so a spoon bait is put on
for the last half hour, greatly to the dissatisfaction of
Old Billy, who has no sort of belief in spoon baits.
This time he may be right, for I only catch
one three pound fish, which I return hastily before he
can get at it with the bottle. By now it

(26:41):
is freezing again and the sun has set, so I
decide that we have had enough. Old Billy pulls up
his rypecks and we return to the landing stage. We
have a brace and a half of decent fish to show,
so we have not done so badly. Old Billy disregards
the form of thanksgiving as I hand him his day's

(27:03):
wage and something over, but again begs me to remember
that he said I should catch fish. I should, he
adds have caught more if I had not returned the
small ones With that, he packs the four pike for
me in the long rush basket, and hastens away to
the black Swan, while I walk off in the opposite direction.

(27:27):
This evening he will describe to an admiring and credulous
audience the complete failure that attended my efforts until he
himself grasped the rod and showed me how it should
be done. By closing time, he will have caught all
of the six fish that entered the landing net this day.

(27:49):
But I forgive old Billy his little weaknesses. The only
complaint I would make about him is that his company
has made a short winter day seems still shorter. End
of Chapter seven.