30 MARCH IN EROADLAND. 



drier portion of his clients sitting in a recess near a blazing log. Here is dis- 

 pensed much genuine Norfolk jargon, and one may overhear the state of village 

 things in general, from their agricultural doings down to the very latest particu- 

 lars about the squire's spaniel's recent litter of puppies. 



Piscator somewhat clumsily tumbles himself and his machinery into the boat, 

 for he is a heavy as well as an ancient member of the fraternity. In a few minutes 

 we are pulling over the rippling surface of the Broad, by the margin of which we 

 swiftly glide along. The coots are making love in the yellow reeds, their harsh 

 clicking, like the sounds of the driving of stakes, being hushed as our right oar 

 crackles among the brittle stems. There must be scores of them. The moorhens 

 are also en evidence. Quite a little colony of them flutter hastily into cover, 

 trailing their long lobated feet upon the water, churning it into little bubbles in 

 their progress, as we turn a bend in the interminable array of straight sere reed- 

 stems. 



' Here's a good hard bottom,' quotha Piscator, ' and it's nicely under the lee.' 



Very good. We gently drop our huge flintstone anchors in about ten feet 

 of water, and throwing over a little ground bait, affix our rods and tackle. 



Piscator is loud yet not too loud, for suppressed exuberance is essential to 

 success as much as baits in praise of some flat-tailed lobworms, which he has 

 had under training in soft, damp moss ' this fortnight.' We wait not long for a 

 nibble. Our float suddenly disappears in an oblique direction. A goodly-sized 

 perch has evidently gone away with it. We strike, and manage to hook our 

 client, which strains hard at the line, now rushing this way and now the other. 

 'Landing net, quickly!' but Piscator's attention is simultaneously called to his 

 own float, which has also vanished. 



1 Eh! what a beauty! ' he ejaculates as, shaking itself furiously, his fish rises to 

 the surface, cutting the water with its stiff-spined dorsal fin and showing its 'fins 

 of Tyrian dye.' Our friend's face is a study as the workings of his mind are 

 depicted upon it. It is a knowing perch that manages to outwit him. Bah! the 

 hook has given way, and with a swirl of its great tail the fortunate fellow sinks 

 down below to tell no doubt a tale of treachery. ' A three pounder if a fish at 

 all ! ' cries Piscator with a relaxed look of disappointment upon his countenance. 

 The.tension on his line and nerves has slackened simultaneously. 



Surely that wounded fellow has made his companions doubtful of our inten- 

 tions. Certain it is that biting ceases for a while; and by way of variation we take 

 to nibbling on our own account. There's nothing like a solace of bread and cheese 



