WADING. 119 



by good fortune, and the rod forms a neat 

 curve with only the cast beyond the rings. 

 There is nothing for it but to lie down, pull up 

 your sleeve, and grope down the gut until your 

 ringers are feeling among the weedy tendrils. 

 You have got him tight by the gills. You 

 manage to get out the scissors and cut the point 

 with your left hand. Nothing of great size, 

 but a plucky eight ouncer taken in his own 

 lair by fair play. 



Further up again the current is deeper, the 

 volume of stream being under the left bank. A 

 fish can be made out, rising repeatedly in the 

 broken water, while a governor is being quickly 

 tied on. Twice it seems to have moved him, 

 and twenty, thirty casts are made at the place. 

 Suddenly it is taken, he gives a tug right on 

 the surface a frantic struggle, and back it all 

 comes with the fly still on, and in perfect 

 order. Whether you were too rough, too soon, 

 or too late, matters little; but the disturbing 

 fact remains that he is in the river, one of the 

 might-have-been pounders that jars upon your 

 memory for hours after. 



And so the evening passes, or rather glides 

 into dusk without one's noticing the process. 



With eyes gradually accustoming themselves 

 to the fading light, one can see the rises up to 

 ten o'clock or later, and can cast a fly with fair 

 accuracy at the spot. After they have ceased, 

 there is the final down-stream-and-across casting 

 with its pulsating pauses, occasionally broken 

 by a tug, either from a large trout or an early 



