SOME WILTSHIRE MEMORIES 



fly and then taking it wet, the biggest I ever killed 

 upon the upper Kennet came to grass that way, and 

 through no fault whatever of mine, but purely by 

 reason of its own incredible, inconceivable stupidity. 

 I remarked in my first chapter that all my fish adven- 

 tures occurred in early youth and that I never had 

 another, but I had forgotten this one. The others 

 appealed straight to what might be called the gallery, 

 sisters, cousins, aunts — anybody. There were not six 

 people in Marlborough, however, to whom the last 

 adventure would have had any meaning whatsoever 

 beyond the not very startling fact that I had an extra 

 good fish in my basket. It was the largest, to be sure, 

 that had ever been killed above the town with fly. But 

 then being only two pounds and a quarter, and many 

 much bigger ones than that swimming habitually 

 about in the Kennet, this would be a mere detail, 

 interesting only to the local craftsman. I did not, 

 I blush to say, disclose to any of the half-dozen how 

 I caught it except that it was upon a small Wickham, 

 which was true and of no significance whatever, for, 

 as this was only half a dozen years ago, dry fly had long 

 been there the order of the day. I merely sent the 

 fish to my old friend, the owner of the water, with 

 my love, as it was in beautiful condition. I was torn, 

 in fact, between reluctance to spoil gratuitously my 

 little triumph and my desire to unfold a strange tale. 

 So I compromised by enjoying the first at the moment 

 and then unfolding the details a year later. And this 

 is what happened, for the benefit more particularly 

 of dry-fly, chalk-stream readers. 



Now there are only about two miles of fishing above 



87 



