174 AN IRISH SALMON-RIVER 



the same language. There is the less occasion to dwell 

 on the events of my first afternoon, seeing that my reel 

 screeched not at all, nor did the greenheart bend, save 

 when a back cast lodged the black-and-white fly firmly 

 in the upper branches of an ash-tree. 



The fact is that every inch of likely water had been 

 well flogged before I could wet my line a condition 

 tending to damp the ardour of the most sanguine fisher- 

 man. The seven beats into which the river is divided 

 are allotted in rotation among the anglers; but by an 

 irritating regulation no man retains exclusive right to 

 his beat for the day after one o'clock. After that it is 

 go as you please, and there ensues a concentration of 

 forces upon the best places. The inferior places having 

 been thoroughly combed over in the morning, there 

 remains little chance of sport in them, and the afternoon 

 competition for the superior 'throws' is a trifle discon- 

 certing to a stranger. 



They were all occupied by the time I arrived, and I 

 had to content myself with a stretch of water which 

 Paddy Rogan pronounced to be 'as full of life as a 

 deserted graveyard.' 



Falling back for recreation upon Paddy's conversational 

 powers, I found them far beyond the common. Begin- 

 ning with the state of the crops, we touched naturally 

 upon the land question. It was discouraging to learn 

 from him local opinion of Mr. Wyndham's Act. 



'The new Land Act, is it?' quoth he; 'och, it'll just 

 be the father and mother of a botheration. I 'm telling 

 your honour what it '11 be. It '11 be like taking a bone 

 and throwing it into a kennel of hungry dogs. 'Deed 

 will it. Every man '11 be at his neighbour's throat.' 



