A Queer Fish!

By “Amel"

“YES”. I muttered earnestly to myself, I as I breathed on the No. 5 spinner, and gave it a final polish, “there’s absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t catch a fish this afternoon. No reason whatever. Fiji is at its best and bright est. The tide is rising, the sun is shin ing, the wind is blowing, the birds are singing . . . and I’ve tied a piece of red wool on the hook. Whoopee! Here goes!”

I slid the “Queen Mary”—eight foot nothing and a trim little lugger—into the river, clambered aboard, shipped the oars and set off, holding the fishing line between by toes and paying it out as I went.

My three dogs yelped ecstatically and galloped along the river bank.

For the first mile or so, things went swimmingly, what with admiring the scenery, and stopping every five minutes to examine the line for a possible fish.

Successfully negotiating a low-hung bridge by the simple method of parting my hair in the middle and bending grace fully from the waist. I passed the mile and-a-half mark without mishap.

Immediately afterwards I felt a strong tug on the line!

With glorious visions of landing the Great-grandfather of all saqas, I un shipped the oars and gave a lusty haul.

To my amazement, a canine yell rent the air! I jumped, and looked, and saw Laddie, the leader of my three dogs, swimming the river with a funny look in his eye.

“Just giving me a bit of encourage

ment”, thought I, smugly, and hauled again!

This time, the yell was ten times louder, and I suddenly awoke to the fact that, instead of the Great-grandfather of all saqas, I had hooked my dog!

The situation was ticklish. Dog or no

dog. I did not want to lose that spin ner. I fretted and fumed and tried to coax him towards me, but it was no good. He just kept on swimming, so I followed .gently in the “Queen Mary’’.

Unfortunately, however. Laddie’s sense of direction slipped, for he led me into a tangled mass of mangrove, where I gibbered and waved my arms and en deavoured to prevent the boat from cap sizing, while he draped himself over a mangrove root and howled blue murder.

The hook had got under his skin, and he wasn’t too thrilled albout it. I edged

closer, but the more I edged the more he howled; and every time he howled the other two chimed in, until the pan demonium was something awful.

Sundry Fijians, with ears flapping and sulus flying in the wind, hastened from the nearby village to see who was being slaughtered. As the drama was enacted behind a screen of mangrove roots, they didn’t see much, but I’ll bet they heard a jugful!

Just as I regretfully decided that I couldn’t stand the racket any longer, and the line would have to go, the un expected happened.

Laddie and a square inch of his epi dermis parted company, and he was free!

While he made a bee-line for terra firma, I thankfully rolled the line in, and rowed home. One dog-fish per day was enough for me!

Launching the “Queen Mary.”