A YORKSHIRE BECK 27 



joints, and put the reel in my coat-pocket. By this 

 means I had a rod of about six and a half feet, and a 

 line that would run more or less if necessary. Thus 

 newly equipped, I climbed down the precipice and got 

 into the stream. 



So far as switching about three yards went, the 

 device was successful ; so far as fish went well, I 

 cannot speak so strongly. I toiled along over the rock 

 and shingle and under the bushes for half a mile or so, 

 and did not get a rise; indeed, I only saw one fish, 

 and that was no bigger than the one I had retufned. 

 But at last I came to a positive pool, nearly two feet 

 deep and quite fifteen feet long. At its tail I got a rise, 

 and landed a beauty of two ounces or rather less. Being 

 no longer a dry-fly man, scarcely even an exponent of 

 the wet fly, I felt privileged to call him a beauty. I 

 did so two or three times, and then went home to 

 luncheon, whereat I announced, in response to in- 

 quiries about the dish of trout for breakfast, that the 

 fish had not been rising owing to the mist, low water, 

 and other things that need not be recapitulated. After 

 all, dry-fly practice has its uses. 



The next morning I left the butt of the rod behind, 

 and started off with the modified equipment. The 

 landing-net was also left behind. It was a much more 

 hopeful day, with intervals of sun and cloud, and I was 

 determined to make the most of it, to fish the beck 

 rather lower down, where it was somewhat bigger, 

 and to provide that breakfast course which honour de- 

 manded. The beginning was heartrending. From the 

 bank I saw a large fish, fully a quarter of a pound, without 

 his seeing me. He took a blue upright flicked gently over 



