212 TROUT FISHING 



all the rest of the day, waiting for something to 

 turn up. It was quite 8 p.m. before the wind 

 dropped and disclosed a grey, cold river flowing 

 sullenly beneath a grey, cold sky. So cheerless 

 was the prospect that I made a movement for home 

 and supper, when " plop " and again " plop " 

 caused a hurried return to the river. 



Yes, by the powers ! there was a great trout 

 feeding close under the camp-sheathing, rising 

 with a cheerful abandon begotten of the Mayfly 

 season. What he was taking was undiscoverable ; 

 nothing was visible on the surface, and spent gnats 

 were out of the question ; all signs of Mayfly had 

 ceased hours before. Still, there he was, and he 

 must be tried. He was in an awkward place, just 

 in the eye of a swirling eddy, where the first fly 

 offered was promptly drowned. It was drowned a 

 second time, and then taken off to make room for 

 a dry one. This swept down the run, hovered for a 

 second at the eye, and was just about to be drowned, 

 too, when " plop " the trout had it. There 

 followed a tearing rush straight downstream, 

 through the deep pool, past a bush, over which the 

 twelve-foot rod could just be lifted, and on for the 

 swift water and the thick weeds. Here he would 

 be a free fish to a certainty, for there was another 

 bush in the way over which the rod could not be 

 lifted. Therefore it was a case of butt or break. 



