THE four of us had been offered a day on 

 the Lugg and we felt ourselves fortunate 

 and gratefully accepted it. We woke 

 early to a frosty morning which was in 

 itself a good omen for the chances of grayling. 

 Thymallus likes a touch of frost at night. We 

 started from Tenbury in a motor-car which was 

 suffering from bronchial catarrh, but consoled 

 ourselves with the thought that Hereford is a 

 restful shire for travelling. We were well 

 wrapped up, especially the Major, who has 

 decided views about the English climate. He 

 was covered by that massive sheepskin coat which, 

 with his usual kindness, he had insisted on lending 

 me for a car drive, one March day, two years 

 before, from Dulverton across bleak Exmoor and 

 back. This cold-resisting coat was the cause, he 

 told us, of a picturesque little incident. Attired 

 in it, he was standing not long before outside his 

 hotel at Penzance, when suddenly a bright little 

 eight-year-old girl danced up to him. " Oh, have 

 you just come from Russia, please ?" 



" No, my dear," replied the Major, who, 



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