1 32 THE TROUT ARE RISING 



self, by the way, not long ago happily converted 

 to the gentle art. It was in a huge R.A.S.C. 

 depot, and he wore rubber heels, which made his 

 approach, even on a stone floor, quite inaudible. 

 Some of us, subalterns at that time, thus suddenly 

 visited in our sections, were pleased to say 

 (privately) that it was not quite fair ! But that 

 was many, many years ago away back in the 

 middle of the war. 



At first, until you have had experience of the 

 river, you may perhaps wonder who your charm- 

 ing visitor is. After the time of day has been 

 passed conversation expands. He descants in- 

 telligently on the crops, discourses wisely on the 

 news of the day. You wonder whether he is 

 the squire's bailiff, just having a walk round 

 the farms, or some farmer taking the air for the 

 good of his health, and glad to pass a few remarks 

 with a stranger. Then, as you think he is pre- 

 paring to depart, and you begin to brace yourself 

 up for a long cast to cover that rising fish on the 

 other side, a slight change is to be detected in his 

 accent, which assumes a velvety tone, as he says : 

 " Will you kindly show me your licence, sir ? " 

 It insinuates, as plainly as possible, " 1 know of 

 course a gentleman like you would not be fishing 

 unless you had a licence, and I am asking only as 

 a mere matter of form." The good man is doing 

 his duty. The manner of his doing it reminds 

 me how I once went to cash a cheque at a bank 

 in Egypt. On presenting it, I said to the clerk, 

 a stranger, " I have the money in the bank." 



