Here, heavy and sullen, and never showing himself, he
ploughed slowly about, and Colonel Haig, already overdue at home, became
impatient, believing that he must have foul-hooked a moderate-sized
fish. Darkness was fast coming on, and at last the Colonel told his
attendant to wade in and try to net the fish.
"He's that muckle I cannot get him in, sir," cried the lad after a time.
But the Colonel could not wait.
"Nonsense," he said. "Get his head in. I can't stop here all night."
Then came the not uncommon result of trying to net a big fish in an
uncertain light; the rim of the net fouled the gut cast, and away went
the fish. It would spoil the story not to tell the rest of it in Sir
Herbert Maxwell's own words.
"The Colonel did not realise the magnitude of his disaster until two or
three weeks later, when he happened to be waiting for a train at St.
Boswells Station. The porter came to him and said:
"'Hae ye ony mind, Colonel, o' yon big fush ye slippit in the Tod Holes
yon nicht?'
"'Oh, I mind him well,' replied the Colonel; 'a good lump of a fish he
was, I believe, but I never saw him rightly.'
"'Ay,' said the other dryly; 'yon wad be the biggest sawmon that ever
cam oot o' the water o' Tweed, I'm thinking.
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