A Red Letter Day 193 



moment on Lough Corrib when I hooked 

 the enormous trout which turned out to be 

 (excuse the Irishism) a beastly, ill-conditioned 

 nine-pound pike. But at last the thought 

 of the morrow warned us, and we "turned 

 in," though it really was a wrench to stow 

 away all those dear old reminiscences. 



" Rouse out, old chap ! " and a thundering 

 knock like the knell of doom woke me from 

 a sound and peaceful slumber. "It is a 

 glorious fishing day," the beatific voice 

 continued, "so show a leg." Yes, thought 

 I, but what is the good of a promising day 

 or anything else when it has been so bitterly 

 cold that there are few flies about, and the 

 trout (what few there are) seem disinclined 

 to rise ? Still, an hour later saw us putting 

 rods and the angler's usual paraphernalia, 

 not forgetting provender for ourselves, into 

 the pony-trap. My misguided friend was so 

 overtaken by anticipation that he had started 



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