THE MAYFLY IN HAMPSHIRE. 167 



no disposition to lie over on his side. He is 

 dipped out still protesting breathlessly. One 

 pound nine ounces, a short golden fish as firm 

 as rubber, and as handsome as paint. 



The obsequies are over. You are back in 

 the same place; but number one is not. Or if 

 he is, he has dined well and wisely and is 

 taking his siesta afterwards. Perhaps it is no 

 good moving : all depends upon one's tempera- 

 ment. Probably I should; and do less well 

 than by stopping. One great advantage in the 

 place is that there are no grayling. It is 

 distinctly a trout beat. Number one, or a new 

 one, may appear any moment. 



By an effort that nearly leaves your boots in 

 the mud, you emerge to try elsewhere with the 

 result that you come upon grayling. No : 

 number one must be revisited. The deep tone 

 of his swallow sounds as though it came from 

 a capacious throat. After all, he is there; and 

 as to his caution well, any man on a sub- 

 scription water after a week of mayfly thrashing 

 knows what to expect. Besides, fancy if you 

 leave him, and the place is taken by another 

 rod, who gets him. 



You once more wedge yourself into the old 

 position, arrange the rushes round you, oil the 

 hackle of your fly, straighten out the landing 

 net, stick it butt end into the mud, and fix 

 your attention upstream. Some more fly comes 

 down. There is a new riser, a trout certainly, 

 just in the middle between the two weed patches 

 taking fly after fly. You can see his broad 



