no THE TROUT ARE RISING 



motor-bicycle over the bridge but the Major 

 none other than my companion at Dulverton, 

 Lifton, Longnor, Langholm and Canonbie ? I 

 sang to myself an anthem of thanksgiving. He 

 had, it appeared, ridden from Devonshire to 

 the Worcestershire-Shropshire border. Almost 

 simultaneously with his arrival, there appeared at 

 the hotel two other brethren of the angle. One 

 was a Major who had lost his left arm (the result 

 of one of his four wounds in the war), but was 

 none the less one of the best fly-fishermen you 

 would meet in a day's march. The other was a 

 demobilized officer, whose cheery humour will 

 long be remembered in the hotel. We had a 

 table together, and when I listened to that trio, 

 with their sparkling, boyish fun, I bethought me 

 of the song which says, " For it's always fair 

 \ weather when good fellows get together." 



Fishing for grayling ! We fished every 

 moment possible, fished again at meals (and they 

 were meals !) and fished again in the smoking- 

 room. " How horribly monotonous must the 

 conversation have been ! " remarks a reader who 

 does not fish, and I concede that there are other 

 interesting subjects besides grayling. Still, the 

 talk was not entirely about fins and tails, for even 

 ardent fishermen cannot live conversationally on 

 a menu of nothing but piscatorial instances. But 

 I fear that, even when things in general were 

 being discussed, there was a tendency for fish 

 to creep in somewhere. As, however, all four 

 were in complete sympathy, nobody was bored. 



