66 CHASING AND RACING 



in the way of an angler's intuition induced me to 

 present a " February red," at the head of the pool 

 nearest the manse. I cast well out and sure enough 

 there was a lusty boil, my rod bent and my reel sang 

 as the line was run out half across the expanse. When 

 safely netted the fish proved to be a nice trout of close 

 on three pounds, in very fair condition, considering the 

 time of year. Urged on by this success I tried the 

 whole stretch again, but nothing of note happened. 

 In April, May, and June, I had some fine sport with 

 the rod. One fine evening during the last-named 

 month of roses, taking with me young Andrew Lime- 

 house (who afterwards became head lad in my grey hound 

 kennels) as a sort of piscatorial caddy, I repaired to a 

 deep stream which connected the penultimate with the 

 furthest pond. The night before I had seen many 

 big fellows cruising up the far bank, feeding freely, 

 and I had made up my mind to a mighty raid as soon 

 as the sun should set. When I arrived no bulges or 

 swirls disturbed the placid surface, so I sat down, 

 lighted my pipe, and waited patiently. The fish were 

 tardy in making their approach obvious. It was not 

 until a rising moon glinted on the water that Andrew 

 touched me on the arm and pointed to where silvery 

 rings were breaking and spreading close under the 

 opposite bank. Hurriedly I affixed a medium-sized 

 " coachman " and measured my cast so that the fly 

 should drop right under the overhanging ledge. Wait- 

 ing until the feeding fish came within comfortable reach 



