10 AN ANGLER'S LINES. 



marked him for its own, and the fates have 

 seemed banded together against him. I 

 decided to try the upper water. Picking up my 

 bait-can I trudged onwards, and, crossing the 

 bridge a quarter of a mile away, regained the 

 Ditch by the other bank. 



The backwater here presented a forlorn and 

 neglected appearance, and, moreover, its course 

 v/as partially obstructed by a bed of weeds 

 which faced me on the opposite side. Close by 

 was the deep hole already referred to, which I 

 proceeded to exploit with a paternoster, but, 

 try as I would, there was the same dishearten- 

 ing result. Leaving the hole I resorted once 

 more to float -tackle. With little, if any, hope 

 of success, for the Ditch shallowed consider- 

 ably and was scarcely 3 feet deep, I shortened 

 the line between the float and the bait and cast 

 over towards the weeds. The sun had set, light 

 was failing badly, and in the air was the chill 

 of a coming frost. Disappointment, apathy; 

 in turn I had long since experienced both, and 

 now was conscious only of an irritable in- 



