A TALE OF A MIXED BAG 119 



the water, and with a rush that seemed to belie the good 

 padre's statement away went Master Pike bang into a 

 dense growth of water-plantains, and it became a case 

 of " pull parson, pull pike." It was a one-sided battle, 

 however, for both the parson and his tackle were strong, 

 the pike sluggish — as is often the case with fish inhabiting 

 stagnant water — and a few minutes later a rather 

 handsomely marked, but miserably lean, thirteen- 

 pounder lay at his last gasp on the sloping shore of the 

 fleet. And now, having gaffed the parson's fish, I will 

 hark back to my own spoon, which still lies hard and fast 

 among the weeds. 



The harder I pulled the more hopelessly entangled 

 became my artificial bait, until a somewhat savage tug 

 snapped the line just above the swivel. My " day's " 

 pike-fishing was finished, for the vicar's creel contained 

 no more " spoons," or indeed spinning tackle of any kind, 

 and being a very indifferent swimmer I did not care to 

 venture amongst the clinging weeds on the off chance of 

 finding the lost lure. 



I was winding in the slack line when Tommy, who had 

 wandered off on his own account while I was helping the 

 parson land his pike, came up to me at a jog-trot with the 

 news that a couple of old shovel-bills (shoveller duck) 

 had dropped in a runnel on the saltings lying outside 

 the high sea-walls, which had been erected round the 

 marsh during the reign of William of Orange, to stop the 

 inroads of the tide. 



Now a shot at shoveller duck does not fall to the lot 



