LONE LOCH WEE 79 



forty yards ahead. The breeze was now light, 

 but still a slight ripple curled the water, and we 

 drifted slowly on towards the great fish. I 

 measured the distance with what accuracy was 

 possible to the eye, and, just at the spot where I 

 expected him, up he came, rolling over in a 

 leisurely fashion that afforded a tempting view 

 of his handsome side and great tail. Alas ! that 

 foul bird had shattered my nerve. I struck, I sup- 

 pose, a trifle too hard, and he retired to the bottom 

 to digest one of my favourite " Greenwells." 



I once asked a Scotch Doctor of Divinity, a 

 keen old sportsman who dearly loved his rod, 

 but who is now no more, what he considered was 

 the size of a huge trout he had once hooked, and 

 of which he had been giving a graphic account. 

 "Well, sir," he said, "I cannot exactly put down 

 the size of the fish — the only thing I can liken 

 him to is a well-grown lad, rolling about on the 

 surface of the water." A very happy simile, but, 

 I fear, I can hardly say that my fish was of the 

 size of "a well-grown lad"; nevertheless, "I 

 should ha'e likit weel" to have seen him safe in 

 the bottom of the boat, for he was one of the big 

 ones that rise all too seldom on Loch Wee. 



