HAUNTS OF THE OTTER 39 



washed away by the rush of water from the wheel. 

 Twelve feet in depth or more it is here ; many a 

 header have I taken into that rush of water, and 

 come up again, otter-fashion, somewhere a long way 

 down. A regular perch-hole this is. 



Not a nibble ! What can it mean ? Impossible 

 to have a better morning ; the wind southward, too. 

 Must have a change of bait. Very likely Mr. Pike 

 is there, upsetting the Perch family. Selecting the 

 finest gimp trace, I remove the perch tackle, and 

 then take a bright, lively gudgeon from the bait-can. 

 Temptation in this case will be placed in the way 

 of Mr. Pike, for I intend to spin for him. The cast 

 is made ; well spins the bait ; once, twice, three times, 

 and never a run. What can be the matter ? They 

 may be at the other side of the weir. No sooner 

 thought about than acted on ; but I spin and spin 

 there, until, disgusted with my want of luck, the rod 

 is laid on the edge of the weir, and a mild invitation 

 is given to the fish to take the bait when they think 

 fit, and no need to hurry about it. 



The angler's consoler, the pipe, is brought out. 

 After a few whiffs, just to compose myself in order to 

 think this matter out, I hear a footstep coming in the 

 direction of the weir, and looking round I recognise 

 one of the oldest workmen in this grand domain. 



