THE PHILOSOPHY OF FAILURE 169 



Nor is it every man who can attain to the consola- 

 tions of such a philosophy. There are memories of 

 blank days that rankle yet. There is that October 

 day spent on one of the most noted pike waters in the 

 Western Midlands, a big lake that was reputed to yield 

 five brace of good fish to a rod on any likely autumn 

 day, and concerning which a relative had much to 

 report. He had fished it the year before, with two 

 other anglers, and the total bag had exceeded thirty 

 pike. Permission was applied for and obtained, and 

 I started at seven o'clock one misty morning on a 

 solitary eleven-mile drive, proposing to do great things 

 and well equipped with bait, both live and dead. But, 

 as ill luck would have it, that October day was one of 

 the hottest of the year, and the pike resented it. One 

 run was the total result of the eleven-mile drive, three 

 dozen live baits, and two dozen dead ones, to say 

 nothing of the exertion of presenting them to the fish 

 with float tackle, paternoster, and spinning flight. 

 And that one run only served to embitter the humilia- 

 tion. It occurred about four o'clock in the afternoon, 

 when a large dace was exploring a deep, weed-fringed 

 arm of the lake. The float went under ; I struck, was 

 fast in a really big fish, and in the foolishness of my 

 heart rejoiced that the blank was turned into glorious 

 triumph. In retrospect that pike seems to have fought 

 like a giant, and, after a long tussle in the depths, he 

 ran out line irresistibly, until he came to a standstill 

 among the weeds, out of which the rod was powerless 

 to move him. The punt, therefore, must go to him a 

 matter of great difficulty, as the line had to be kept 

 taut while the anchor was hauled in with the left hand. 



