A LONDON TROUT. 79 



was an eel-spear. They churned up the mud, wading 

 in, and thickened and darkened it as they groped 

 under. No one could watch these barbarians longer. 



Is it possible that he could have escaped? He 

 was a wonderful fish, wary and quick. Is it just 

 possible that they may not even have known that a 

 trout was there at all; but have merely hoped for 

 perch, or tench, or eels ? The pool was deep and the 

 fish quick they did not bale it, might he have 

 escaped? Might they even, if they did find him, 

 have mercifully taken him and placed him alive in 

 some other water nearer their homes ? Is it possible 

 that he may have almost miraculously made his way 

 down the stream into other pools ? 



There was very heavy rain one night, which might 

 have given him such a chance. These " mights," 

 and "ifs," and "is it possible'' even now keep alive 

 some little hope that some day I may yet see him 

 again. But that was in the early summer. It is 

 now winter, and the beech has brown spots. Among 

 the limes the sedges are matted and entangled, the 

 sword-flags rusty; the rooks are at the acorns, and 

 the plough is at work in the stubble. I have never 

 seen him since. I never failed to glance over the 

 parapet into the shadowy water. Somehow it seemed 

 to look colder, darker, less pleasant than it used to 

 do. The spot was empty, and the shrill winds 

 whistled through the poplars. 



