THREE FISH 53 



I happened to have in my cap a trout-fly— one 

 usually has ; they rest there from season to season. 

 I tried to explain that in England we caught trout 

 with these. The Digger looked derision, and the 

 more when I told him it would catch his trout all 

 right. "No, no good. Only Indian," pointing 

 to himself. " Well," I answered, " / will catch you 

 one." 



So borrowing a line (such a line !) from the boys, I 

 cut down a willow bough, put on my fly with its five 

 or six inches of gut collar, and, feeling that the 

 honour of England hung upon me, got to work. 



The only way, of course, in which anything could 

 be done was by letting the line run out on the top 

 of the water, so that the stream took it under the 

 bushes, and then the fly could be worked a bit. 



Of course the trout wouldn't look at that fly. It 

 scared them. They fled from it. At first the 

 Digger boys looked on. But they soon grew tired 

 of watching a lunatic at work, and left. I will not 

 trouble to give any details of the performance ; 

 they would not pass the columns of The Field in 

 the very dullest season. But the one constant 

 feature of the day was my old Digger. He never 

 left. He shadowed me. Sitting always just behind 



