GRAYLING FISHING ON THE ITCH EN 49 



rotting weeds floating about everywhere, and you 

 may pursue the river for a mile with never a sign 

 that life existed below the surface. 



It was in these hopeless circumstances that I 

 reached my old quarters on Saturday, the ist 

 instant. There I found my good friend the Pro- 

 fessor, who had already been there three days. 

 He was delighted to see me, for he sadly wanted 

 a companion in misfortune on whom he could 

 expend his eloquence, and pour out the vials of 

 his wrath against the elements which had con- 

 spired to prevent the possibility of his catching 

 any grayling. "The river," he said, "my dear 

 sir, wants oxidizing, it wants ozonizing, it wants 

 stirring up into life ; it is dead, and the fish in it 

 are already half-poisoned, languid, lifeless. Catch 

 a big grayling now and you will find him not as 

 he ought to be, plump and vigorous you will 

 find him limpid and sickly. There will be no 

 fishing till we have had several days and nights 

 of downpour of rain, so we may both of us as 

 well pack up and go home, and come again after 

 the rain." This was not encouraging, but it was 

 prophetic. 



As we were sitting that Saturday night, playing 

 our last game of chess, between eleven and twelve, 

 we heard a quiet lifting of the latch of the hall door, 

 which, fortunately, was well barred. "Burglars," 

 cried the Professor ; " where's the poker ? " Then 

 came a gentle tapping at our window. We knew 

 a burglar wouldn't do that, so we opened the door, 



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