SOME WILTSHIRE MEMORIES 



the whole business, I had him firm. At the same 

 moment a score of flannelled cricketers homeward- 

 bound swarmed on to the bridge. I was only just in 

 time ! 



And then ensued a great fight, the only really ex- 

 hilarating contest I ever remember to have had with 

 a chalk-stream fish. There were hopeless banks of 

 weeds — indeed the river was a solid mass of them 

 just below the open run, and the cast was of drawn 

 gut. Again and again the fish dashed for the shelter, 

 and as often it seemed a very touch-and-go whether 

 my cast would hold. The gathering company upon 

 the bridge, lusty sons perhaps, some of them, of my 

 ancient schoolfellows, manifested great excitement. 

 Some of them jumped into the meadow, which was 

 strictly out of bounds, and at least three of them 

 wanted to net the fish for me when he was at last 

 beaten. Not knowing the state of their temperature 

 or the extent of their fish-lore I took no such risks. 

 Most of us have seen an excited schoolboy as well as 

 an unsophisticated grown-up making perilous play 

 with a landing-net. The trout scaled, as already 

 noted, just two pounds and a quarter when I got 

 home. He was a beautiful thick Kennet fish, in the 

 very pink of condition, and my old friend the doctor, 

 and owner of the water, said he cut as red as a salmon 

 on the table. But I never could have believed it to 

 be within the wildest bounds of possibility that such 

 a trout, or indeed any trout, could slowly and de- 

 Hberately make such an astounding fool of himself. 

 And he was the largest, too, ever taken on a fly above 

 Marlborough ! 



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