AUGUST ON THE ITCHEN. 179 



throw for me you will be hitched up at the 

 very first cast.' I did not do it but puffed away 

 discontentedly. Another ten minutes, a quarter 

 of an hour went by, and then patience was 

 rewarded. In the deep run close under the 

 bank there was a quiet rise. What was more 

 it was repeated at quick intervals. It was 

 beyond all doubt a trout that had just begun 

 to feed. 



My cast was made ; it was taken down : it 

 was taken further down as I struck and there 

 the situation ended. The line was firm and 

 fast into something; but that something was 

 itself equally firm and fast, well under an over- 

 hanging ridge of mud bank or rock, apparently 

 wedged in. Nothing would stir it. The fly 

 might as well have been in a sunken log as a 

 sulky trout. Hand lining would not move it. 

 A long rest did not alter matters. In spite of 

 all the expedients tried the inevitable break came 

 at last. 



Another story of a lost three pounder. One's 

 estimate, I notice, is in such cases always just 

 fifty per cent, beyond one's best fish. He was 

 an old campaigner no doubt and had his holt 

 adorned like a wigwam with the relics of past 

 escapes, artificial sedges and mayflies perhaps 

 even a contraband minnow being the scalps 

 he affixed to its walls. Trout such as these 

 remind one of thieves who never move far from 

 the alleys or courts up which they can escape 

 the moment they have snatched a watch or 

 purse. They do not intend to venture into the 



