228 AN OPEN CREEL 



resented the idea of doing other people's dirty work. 

 But most and deepest I resented the stiles, which 

 were innumerable. After the third pool I climbed 

 five in quick succession. The sixth stopped me. It 

 was a terrible erection, and for all I knew was but 

 the beginning of a series. No salmon-pool on the 

 river was worth the labour, and I turned firmly round 

 for home. At the footbridge I stopped to take off my 

 cast and wind up my line. It had been a wretched day. 

 Just as I came to this conclusion, and was about 

 to depart by the lane, I caught sight of the kettle in 

 the water. Somehow it made me pause ; it looked 

 different. Yes, its spout had turned round, and was 

 now pointing downstream ; its handle was almost 

 under water. The river was rising ! Perhaps I now 

 had a chance. Profoundly though I ached, I threaded 

 the line through the rod-rings and put on the cast 

 again, deciding to give the second and most likely 

 pool another trial. It was a quarter of a mile away, 

 but I hurried over the distance, eager to try the 

 effect of that first half-hour of waxing water. It was 

 after 5 p.m. when, having tied on a medium-sized 

 Silver Wilkinson, I got in at the head of the stream 

 that flowed under the bushes into the pool. Fishing 

 steadily down, I came at last to the spot where I 

 was sure a salmon would be lying if there was one 

 anywhere the point at which the stream suddenly 

 deepened into the pool. The fly worked round into 

 the eddy, and just in the slack water the pull came, 

 and I was fast in a fish. I forgot all about aches 

 and weariness as the reel screamed, got out on to 

 the shingly beach, and settled down to a period of 



