1 88 THE TROUT ARE RISING 



The Major, too, had a sad experience. He and 

 I had a permit for a day on a strictly preserved 

 water, and the old pony in the jingle landed us, 

 supremely happy, in the forenoon at a spot about 

 seven miles from home. We were just about to 

 put our tackle together, when the Major ex- 

 claimed : " There ! I've left my fishing bag, with 

 my reel, casts, and all my flies, behind at the 

 hotel, or dropped it on the road." We came to 

 the conclusion it could not possibly have dropped 

 out of the jingle. The Major rose to great 

 heights. He was philosophical and would not 

 hear of my going back. " You go on with the 

 fishing, old chap, and I'll be back in the after- 

 noon." So off he drove, and I, feeling heavy- 

 hearted and somewhat selfish, went on fishing. 

 But the trout were rising, and I fear I did not 

 let my uneasy conscience prevent me from taking 

 advantage of the fact. Three or four hours later 

 he returned with his fishing bag, and he had rare 

 sport after all ; indeed, by 7 p.m., when we started 

 for home, he had nearly caught me up. The old 

 pony that day had done nearly thirty miles. If 

 there are such things as stable prayers a petition 

 surely went up that night, "... and please do 

 not let these fly-fishermen be so careless again, 

 for my feet still * vex me (as they say in 

 Wales). 



Another angler told me that once when he got 

 to the waterside he discovered he had left his reel 

 behind him, and was correspondingly depressed. 

 However, lie betook him to the water-bailiff's 



