188 TROUT FISHING 



weighed half a pound, a real half pound, and the joy 

 that seized me when I saw him, to be followed by 

 immediate quaking lest he might get off, was 

 certainly no less than that which was mine at Mayfly 

 time when a supposed chub proved to be a noble 

 Kennet trout of three and a half pounds. In the 

 evening I got another half-pounder in the same pool, 

 and the brace will live long in my memory, if only 

 for the effectual manner in which they enabled me 

 to answer Caradoc, who also had one, and was 

 prematurely jubilant over it. 



One day, rendered desperate by the weather, 

 I angled with worm in a flood and tore out several 

 unfortunate trout by brute force. Time was Avhen 

 I thought worming in pea-soup eddies the height of 

 bliss, and I was curious to see if the glamour of 

 youth could be recaptured. There is a moment 

 — I have before confessed it — when you live at this 

 business, the moment in which you feel the first 

 twitch at the line as a trout essays the worm. Nor 

 will I deny that the four quarter-pounders which I 

 got out of the little channel below the mill-wheel 

 gave me pleasure, nor that, as the six ounce fish 

 fell back, I lived once more some of the old agony. 

 These things I confess. But there came a moment 

 when I was conscious of blood and slime, and that 

 I was engaged on a very black venture. And, 

 moreover, I had no half-pounder. So I put away 



