40 LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES 



GEORGY (a stout, elderly stockbroker, supposed to 

 be like the lamented George IV, rising with a laugh, 

 and leisurely filling his pipe) : Begad ! what am I the 

 worse for my paraphernalia ? The General there and 

 all of you, i* faith, are very glad to make use of my 

 little odds and ends. 



The GENERAL (contemptuously) : When I was a 

 young man we never bothered ourselves very often 

 with so much as a landing-net. Now you are laden 

 with stuff like a pack mule. Look at Georgy's priest 

 dangling from one button, his oil-bottle from another, 

 his weighing machine from another. 



R. O. : Ay, and there's the damping box for the gut 

 points, and the pin to clear the eyeholes of the hooks, 

 and the linen cloth to wrap the trout in, and the clear- 

 ing-ring, and the knee-pads, and whole magazines of 

 flies. 



The PARSON : Good ! I know Georgy has at least 

 twenty patterns, and by the time he has found out 

 which is the killer the rise is over. 



SUFFIELD : Hello ! See that ? 



ALL : What ? Where ? 



SUFFIELD : I beg your pardon : it was only a swal- 

 low, or a rat. 



R. O. : No; Harvey is signalling up at the bridge. Let 

 us be moving. The fly is coming. Tight lines to you 

 all. [Piscatorum Personae collect their rods, pull up 

 their waders, and stroll away in various directions.] 



GEORCY (an hour later, seated amongst the sedges 

 by a broad part of the river, mopping his forehead, rod 

 laid aside on the grass behind : to him approaches the 

 Parson from the shallow above) : That was a warm 

 bout while it lasted, parson. How did you get on ? 



PARSON : Get on ? Not at all. For a time the 

 fish rose in all directions, but they did not seem to 



