Notes and Quertes 29 
My task was at first a hard one, for Baron de 
P.’s modus operand? was very ineffective, but 
after a good deal of coaching and actual man- 
ual guidance I had at length the satisfaction of 
seeing that he hadarun. His agitation was 
extreme; but I persuaded him to give his fish 
time to pouch, and in due time he was fast. 
My sporting friend’s excitement now became 
ludicrous; the pulling of the fish was evident- 
ly a novel sensation to him. His first exclama- 
tion was, ‘‘ Mais, que faut-il donc faire?”’ We 
were on the edge of the strong bed of weeds 
opposite Bisham Abbey, so I urged him to hold 
his rod up, keep a tight hand, and reelin when 
he could. This made the jack show fight, 
whereat the Baron ejaculated (much in the 
style of Dominie Sampson’s ‘‘ Prodigious’’), 
‘« Mais—mais il ¢zve/ mais c’est incroyable!’ 
However, the fish, which weighed but 4 tb., was 
at length landed, and I easily induced his cap- 
tor, who was in his glory with an entirely new 
experience, to land with me at the Abbey, 
where it was just luncheon time. The way in 
which he fought that battle over again was a 
caution, and had we not both been pretty well 
known, I must have passed for the novice, and 
he for the master of the craft who had been 
giving me a lesson. 
Worse than the Winkle style, because more 
definitely mendacious, is that of a class of men 
who do catch fish occasionally, but wish to pass 
for being generally successful. The worst 
specimen of this class that I ever met with 
was one Captain P. (so at least he called him- 
self, though I believe it was as a non-commis- 
sioned officer that he had gained some distinc- 
tion), who was lodging at a farmhouse near 
Bettws-y-Coed, when I was at Cross Keys with 
my tutor in 1832. I disliked the man, who was 
bumptious and ill-bred, but did my best to 
keep on civil terms with a soldier who had 
really seen some fighting. I even listened to 
his tales of captured trout, though, strangely 
enough, often as I met him with his rod, I 
never saw any of the contents of his basket. 
But a London barrister, Mr. K., who lodged at 
Cross Keys with us and often shared our mess, 
was less complaisant. He was a thorough fly- 
fisher, and being himself strictly accurate in 
all details of sport, conceived a vehement aver- 
sion for the boastful captain. He styled P. 
‘‘Captain Braggadocio”’; came more than 
once to high words with him, and on one occa- 
sion replied to a threat of violence py levelling 
the spike of his fishing rod at his enemy’s 
paunch. One morning K. and I were strolling 
down to the river, when we met the captain 
returning, rod in hand, from a ford I knew 
well. K. would have gone on, but I thought 
it civil to inquire after P’s sport, not, I confess, 
without some hope of amusement from his an- 
swer. He replied, as I hoped, with a tale of 
impossible dozens; but capped it by stating 
that in returning over the stepping-stones his 
foot had slipped, his creel gone over his head, 
and all his trout had floated down the Conwy. 
Ere he was well out of hearing, K. burst out 
with ‘*’The lying old scoundrel! He hasn’t wet 
his foot, and hasn’t killed a trout to-day !” 
I must venture a digression here to relate 
the sequel, though I fear the quantities of it 
will evaporate in the telling. That night I 
was sitting up late over some mathematics, 
when K., who had been dining out, burst in 
with ‘‘Whom do you think I’ve just been see- 
ing home, with Jack Jones to heip me?—why 
that lying old Capain Braggadocio! He had 
fallen drunk from his pony, and I found him 
lying senseless on a heap of stones, with seven 
contused wounds on his head! I couldn’t leave 
him there, could 1?” I assured him that I ad- 
mired his active charity, and when, after break- 
fast next morning, he spoke of calling to inquire 
after the battered warrior, I praised his pur- 
pose with all my heart. But he returned with- 
in an hour, boiling over with wrath. ‘‘ Well, 
sir,” he said, ‘‘I went in to see theold scoun- 
drel, whom I left last night at M’s farm dead 
drunk, witn seven contused wounds on his 
head! And what do you think I saw, sir, 
when I entered his room? Why, he was sitting 
up in bed, with his head wrapped in a wet 
towel, drinking gin and water. out of a slop 
basin?” I shall never forget the solemn in- 
dignation of K’s tone in speaking of the ‘‘seven 
contused.wounds.’’ Had the seven deadly sins 
been in question he could hardly have used a 
graver emphasis. I believe he felt himself 
personally wronged by the mendacity of a 
brother angler, and agreed by anticipation 
with the hero of the ‘‘ Morte Arthur’ — 
‘This is a shameful thing, for men to lie!” 
A Tyro With the Feathers. 
In 1881 I located in Aurora, Illinois, on the 
Fox river, which empties into the Illinois at 
Ottawa, and having been, since my age would 
admit of it, an inveterate disciple of Isaak 
