IN PRAISE OF CHUB 205 



is, in some respects, the wisest of fishes, and when 

 he suns himself at the top he is impatient of intruders. 

 But a glimpse of Piscator or of the angle-rod outlined 

 against the sky, and he is gone, sunk quietly out of 

 sight and reach. Strategy, therefore, demands that 

 Piscator should grovel, trailing the angle-rod behind, 

 into some concealed position, whence the fly may be 

 artfully despatched. 



Like the earth-worm, I wriggled down the grassy 

 slope to the little bush which offered the only bit 

 of cover on the bank, and, peeping round it, found, 

 to my relief, that loggerhead was still in view. But 

 he was a plaguy long way off twenty yards at least 

 and even had I been able to cast so far with the 

 little nine-foot rod "suitable to youths" and the light 

 line, there was the rising ground behind to frustrate 

 me. There was nothing for it but to wait in the 

 hope that the fish might come a little nearer. So 

 I waited, and I will not say that a prayer was not 

 breathed to Poseidon that he should send loggerhead 

 towards my bank. A long time I waited maybe half 

 an hour or more and the fish never moved more than 

 an inch or two, but at long last he seemed to wake up. 

 Some trifle of a fly attracted his attention, and I saw 

 capacious jaws open and shut, and afterwards he 

 seemed anxious for more, for he began to cruise 

 slowly about. Then by slow degrees the circles of 

 his course widened, until finally he was within about 

 twelve yards of my bank. Now, I judged, was the 

 time, and with a mighty effort and heart in mouth 

 I switched out the fly at the end of my line (an 

 artificial bluebottle, I remember) as far as I could. 



