EARLY MEMORIES 35 



of whiting-pout, a confiding fish that, to my un- 

 spoilt taste, gave capital sport on a light rod and 

 fine gut tackle. Early and late on half a hundred 

 August mornings I would squeeze under the 

 turnstiles before the official hour of opening, a 

 breach of the bye-laws with which I reconciled 

 a not too squeamish conscience by the reflection 

 that I held a monthly ticket. The fishing was of 

 the simplest and never frustrated our modest am- 

 bitions. The rod was put together on the upper 

 deck, for fear of losing a joint through the grating 

 down below, and the small hooks on the gut pater- 

 noster were baited with fragments of peeled boiled 

 shrimp or raw mussel. Then a favourite position 

 was chosen with due regard to the direction of 

 the wind and set of the tide, and within an hour 

 or two the wicker creel was once more too full of 

 bronze pout for the lid to shut down. The best 

 of these were fried for luncheon or even, when I 

 could tear myself from the waterside in time, for 

 breakfast, at which meal, eaten within a few 

 minutes of their having swum to their destruction, 

 they were much better eating than many a more 

 pretentious fish bought several days after it is 

 caught. As one of the rock-dwelling fish not 

 commonly caught in the trawl, the pout is rarely 

 seen at the fishmonger's, in spite of which it is, 

 if perhaps less delicate food for the convalescent 

 stomach, quite as agreeable eating as the true 



