62 THE PIKE 



shivering in the summer-house by the landing stage 

 over the basket filled with something hidden under 

 fair white linen. It was a miserable repast, neverthe- 

 less, and the benumbed angler and his wretched- 

 looking attendant turned up the collars of their over- 

 coats, shut the door, and made believe to enjoy the 

 cold pheasant and etceteras. It was a hasty luncheon, 

 and we were glad to return to the boat. I had 

 not begun spinning again without observing that 

 the frost, instead of relaxing, was becoming keener. 

 The rings were frozen instantly, the drippings from 

 the line fell frozen, making such an icefloe in the 

 boat that we had to land, beat out loose gravel 

 from the walks, and sprinkle it about in order to 

 secure steady foothold. 



Indeed, fishing was impossible. The line came in 

 stiffer and stiffer, and as almost every cast in a portion 

 of the lake which we now tried brought back frag- 

 ments of weed on the triangles, it was agonising work 

 incessantly to free the bait. The very tackle and 

 bait at last froze between the casts, and by two 

 o'clock, which is precisely the time the pike angler 

 should be laying himself out for final hours of best 

 chances, the cold was so masterful, and the impossi- 

 bility of getting the line to glide freely through the ice- 

 bound rings so pronounced, that a retreat was beaten. 



