38 THE TROUT ARE RISING 



not scorned. Hackle flies were preferable to the 

 winged ones. In spite of snow-water, a sharp 

 frost, and an occasional north-east wind (when that 

 is in possession of the skies, you can profitably 

 leave the Barle), sport during the week was, on 

 the whole, good. 



The six days' leave was soon up, but not 

 before the accuracy of the boy's statement about 

 the lovely fishing below the bridge was confirmed. 



Incidentally, I heard a striking tribute to the 

 dry-fly man. Some one said to the landlady of the 

 hotel that the Barle had too fast a current for the dry 

 fly. Her reply, crushing though courteous, was, 

 " Oh, but some very clever dry-fly fishermen 

 come here, and they catch the largest trout." 



It was with thankfulness for restful days that 

 I caught the London train back, hoping that the 

 dry-fly men would live up to their reputation, 

 and continue to win favour in mine hostess's 

 sight, and that the wet-fly brethren would not 

 fail to go on picking up their quarter-pounders 

 here and there, and that they would improve 

 upon the size and perhaps even rival the dry-fly 

 men. In any case I hoped that one and all would 

 enjoy lovely fishing by, below, above, and between 

 the bridges. For the abundant good-will of the 

 kindly folk who inhabit these parts sends a grate- 

 ful visitor away in the most altruistic frame of 

 mind. I had had, as it were, but a glimpse of it all. 

 Had circumstances allowed those six days should 

 have been sixty. Perchance in the future I may 

 be able to work off the other fifty and four. 



