A YORKSHIRE BECK 29 



to quiver all over, and at the third he fled precipitate. 

 These were the only incidents that morning that made 

 me feel like a dry-fly man, and even then it was 

 scarcely like a purist of the highest type. 



At last I grew desperate, and, so to speak, invited 

 Providence to " come on." I had reached the stage of 

 stripping a hook of its wings and hackle and attaching 

 the naked instrument to my cast. Providence was 

 willing for the fray, and "came on." I procured a 

 piece of stick, and dug furiously in the moist bank for 

 worms. There were none. So I returned to luncheon, 

 and afterwards took train for the South in thoroughly 

 chastened mood. 



Two years passed, during which at intervals I 

 pondered on the beck and the problem whether its 

 trout could not by some impossibility be cozened with 

 the fly. An invitation to revisit the scene quickened 

 thought into action, and I routed out a little old nine- 

 foot greenheart rod which had not seen the light for 

 years. For it I caused to be made a new butt nine 

 inches long, and so became the possessor of the 

 smallest fly-rod in the world six feet three inches. 

 This I took up to Yorkshire and displayed with all an 

 inventor's pride, much, I imagine, as one would exhibit 

 the latest triumph in aeroplanes. I had forgotten that 

 science never stands still. When Maecenas with a 

 genial smile produced a rod (a real rod in two joints, 

 not a makeshift like mine) several inches shorter, my 

 feelings became like (I am imagining again) those of 

 the inventor who has just seen his aeroplane descend 

 to earth unexpectedly. That, however, is by the way, 

 and I must get on to Monday. 



