CLEAR WATERS 



apparently fished every stream and burn within reach 

 of the various ramifications of the North British rail- 

 road system on which he had spent his life. On each 

 and all of them he had performed deeds of derring-do 

 with fly and worm, to say nothing of the various 

 grubs and beetles dear to the heart of the Border 

 angler. The precise shade of a hackle for this river, 

 the touch of gold tinsel beloved by the trout of that 

 one — all such things as these, the garnered store of 

 the hard-won leisure hours of an enthusiast, were the 

 burden of his talk to willing, and I dare say to many 

 unwilling, listeners. He had known many famous 

 Border anglers, and was fond of recalling everything 

 he had said to them and all that they had said to him 

 on the unfailing topic. There was plenty of time, 

 too, for such indulgence, as mighty few wheeled traps 

 went through the gates to face the narrow, toilsome 

 road across the hills beyond them. For myself I 

 was generally cycling on these occasions, and as the 

 ascent rose steeply from the crossing, one couldn't 

 finish the business by mounting and riding away, but 

 had to push for half a mile, which gave our eloquent 

 friend a chance to keep abreast, and continue the record 

 of his past triumphs and his present grievances for 

 just so far as he dare wander from his post. He was 

 always deeply interested, too, in the news from the 

 Whiteadder, which river, poor soul, he never any 

 longer got even a sight of. If the sport had been 

 indifferent he would tell you the precise reason for 

 it, and that he had never expected anything else. 

 If, on the other hand, you had done well, he had all 

 along been confident that such would be the case, and 



344 



