IN A WELSH VALLEY 195 



baskets had been light. " What you must do," 

 I said, " is to have a go for the chub." " What are 

 chub?" he asked without enthusiasm. "Chub 



are " I hesitated for a comparison — " I know. 



Chub are just hke squaw fish." 



His eye brightened. The good old squaw fish — 

 it was like a message from home, though, I have 

 gathered from his conversation, at home tlie squaw 

 fish is not exactly a prized trophy, but contrariwise. 

 Anyhow, I had rekindled hope in his breast, and he 

 had a go for the chub. 



That evening I returned to find that he had 

 captured a really considerable chub, a fish of nearly 

 three pounds, which is big for the Penydwddwr. 

 Was he pleased ? He was not. He thought meanly 

 of the chub. He spoke meanly of it. He regarded 

 the escape of just such another not as a misfortune, 

 but as an incident of no importance. Didn't they 

 fight? No, not worth naming. Weren't they like 

 squaw fish? No — gloomily — squaw fish had teeth. 

 And he was not a bit impressed by the chub's throat 

 teeth, as described. Altogether the matter turned 

 out disappointingly, and it was not long after when 

 the Colonial " hit the ties," " boarded the cars," 

 or whatever Greater Britain calls going by train, and 

 went off to London to see about some " real estate," 

 or " preemptions," or " town lots," or something. 

 Nor did he return. 



