182 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



can get the cream of it in a couple of hours, morn- 

 ing and evening, when the tide is about half way 

 up. 



It is four o'clock on a July morning. The sun 

 is still down behind Exmouth, but, as we walk 

 the few steps to the boathouse, the haze that broods 

 over the Den, the cloudless blue sky overhead, the 

 stillness in the air, all forecast a scorching day. 

 And on a hot morning, even before breakfast, we 

 have reckoned ; otherwise, a suit of ducks over one's 

 pyjamas would be light attire for early morning 

 on the water. As a matter of fact, until the sun 

 gets at us over the elms, there is a nip in the air 

 that occasionally takes our thoughts to the long 

 coat that hangs behind the door. 



A little after four, having roused Cox, who, 

 like the May Queen, has to be awakened early if 

 he is to get up at all, and given him time for his 

 inevitable cup of stewed and syrupy tea, we are 

 snug in the Hirondelle, our trout-rods and 

 collars of single gut ready for action, and a bait- 

 box towing alongside with a score of dashing 

 sand-eels fresh from last night's seine. It will 

 be high water soon after nine, so that the tide 

 must have turned an hour ago, and indeed it is 

 draining perceptibly in from the sea, as witness 

 the boats that have swung round to it. Yet there 

 will not be enough for an hour at least to take 

 our boat along stern-first, which is the ultimate 



