38 CHATS ON ANGLING. 



Many had tried to secure him by fair fishing, but though once or 

 twice hooked he had so far got off scot free. Nor was his post an easy 

 one to attack ; the water was, of course, gin-clear, very narrow, and 

 also very shallow. The slightest sign of gut — and he was off. 



On a lovely summer morning — to be accurate, the 26th of June, 1893 

 — my dear old friend Harry Maxwell and I had fished up from the 

 bee-hive, past the cascade, and were nearing the bridge with rather 

 more than average success, and had decided to eat our luncheon on 

 the bankside, under the friendly shade of the bridge. It was, however, 

 barely half-past twelve — too early, we agreed, for lunch — so Maxwell went 

 up a little to fish the shallow above, and I elected to have a try for Jack, 

 as I had reconnoitred and found him to be occupying his accustomed 

 corner. As the river was rather low, and as bright as only a chalk 

 stream can be, I decided to break through my general rule and put on two 

 lengths of the finest drawn gut, feeling that in this instance any natural 

 gut, however fine, would be out of the question. 



I was careful to draw the gut through a bunch of weed, to diminish 

 the glare ; the Whitchurch dun was on the water, and its counterfeit had 

 already secured us some fair fish, but for some reason or other I was 

 impelled to select a small 000 pale watery dun, called the Driffield dun, 

 for my lure. After carefully testing my line and cast I waded out into 

 the heavy stream, opposite to and commanding the outlet of Jack's bay. 



Knowing that there was little hope of dropping my fly at the desired 

 spot without giving my friend a glimpse of the gut, after a preliminary 

 cast or two, to make sure of my distance, I sent off my fly on its errand, 

 intending to pitch it on the grass just above the culvert. The first cast, 

 fortunately, went right, and by a gentle tap or two on the butt of my 

 rod I dislodged the fly from the grass, and it fluttered down airily in 

 front of Master Jack, the fine gut never having touched the water. No 

 sooner had it done so than Jack had it. Fortunately I did not strike 

 too hard, as one is so liable to do under such circumstances ; just the 

 requisite turn of the wrist and the small hook went home. 



Before I had time to realise fully what had happened the fish had 

 bolted from his holt into the main stream, a bag of unavoidable line 

 behind him as he charged straight towards me. On regaining touch 

 with him I found that the hook had still firm hold, and that Jack was 



