74 THE BILLIARD TABLE POOL. 



inn was reached and the fish laid out on the 

 table and weighed. Each one was above the 

 estimate. A golden day indeed, from water 

 into which not an artificially-bred trout had ever 

 been placed during the hundred odd years that 

 anglers had haunted the stream. How my host 

 had fared that evening I did not know then, 

 but his advice was truly disinterested. He had 

 told me of a veritable Arcadia. Twice again it 

 fell to my good fortune to fish the same place 

 but no such red-letter luck recurred. 



A long rest after supper with the battle 

 fought again amid wreaths of smoke a nirwana 

 of trout lore brought that day to a close and 

 sent me out down the road to the upper bridge 

 a hundred yards off under the light of a moon 

 but two days past the full. While stepping 

 across the side parapet I saw and heard a rush 

 in a shallow stickle and for a moment thought 

 of salmon. it was a pair of otters who had 

 been lying out in only a few inches of water. 



A rustling wake and they were gone. Every- 

 body was gone. The river seemed to be the 

 Kotmali-oya of Ceylon. One o'clock struck : 

 I could keep awake no longer. 



So ended a beautiful evening in my angling 

 memory, nor was its beauty mainly attributable 

 to the success of the fly which proved so kind 

 and killing. The rarity of such days that com- 

 bination of good sport, fortunate management, 

 and lovely surroundings, makes them stand out 

 the more. 



All the penance of blanks and blundering 



