THE EVENING 91 



there had been nothing. The whole side stream 

 had been patrolled without the sight of anotlicr fish, 

 and now I stood at the head of the hateh-hole 

 wondering what I had better do, whether follow the 

 main stream up against the light or go quickly 

 back and go over the side stream again. 



Nothing of course was rising in the hatch-hole — 

 nothing ever does when you are on the spot. Besides 

 it is not a " rising " sort of place, small, deep, 

 turbulent, and very difficult to fish without a drag. 

 Only in the right-hand corner is there anything like 

 a steady bit of stream, a short narrow run just 

 towards the eye of the eddy where it meets the 

 foam. It is the sort of place where a good trout 

 might rise, and where a good angler might be 

 excused for missing him. To cast a short line from 

 the wall above across a clump of rushes and hanging 

 grasses and also over a belt of drift weeds on to a 

 rather rippled stream, and to make sure of *' con- 

 verting " a rise, is not an easy matter. 



The eye surveyed this place disparagingly. The 

 hand to which the eye belonged had made sad 

 bungles of similar places. And anyhow there was 

 nothing rising. But, stay, what was that ? A trail 

 of dark weed? Surely. And yet — and would 

 that be another trail of weed a bit further out 

 and higher up ? Confound the light, or ratlicr lack 

 of light ! Who could be sure, looking southwards 



