THE WATERS OF CADER IDRIS 



since he had played the porpoise in the mountain stream 

 seven years back. Nor had our luck so far in the few 

 days of his stay been such as to inspire an unbeliever, 

 for which last I was devoutly thankful. But it trans- 

 pired that he had seen some very big bass brought in 

 the night before, the size of which and the Anglo- 

 Indian's amiable solicitations had touched his ardent 

 temperament. I have noticed that the unbeliever, 

 if otherwise a sportsman, is often warmed up at the 

 notion of a big fish. A tarpon or a sturgeon appeals 

 to him, which of course only emphasises his hopeless 

 state of mind. Relative tackle means nothing to him. 

 He sniffs a sort of personal encounter in the deep a 

 kind of pull-devil, pull-baker business, a tug-of-war. So 

 the solemn colonel and Dick passed out into the gloam- 

 ing that evening, each armed with a big rod and the 

 fearsome projectiles with which they were to thrash the 

 dark waters of the out-flow. I watched them out of 

 sight, as there was something so delightfully incon- 

 gruous in the spectacle, and then settled comfortably 

 down before the fire, thanking heaven I wasn't the 

 colonel. 



It now becomes imperative to relate that the warrior 

 in question always wore a soft hat of slightly eccentric 

 make and fashioned of some peculiar rough material, 

 which was almost obscured by the flies in it. Most 

 of us have a few on our headgear when on the war-path, 

 but the colonel's hat had become quite one of the jests 

 of the Towyn season. We opined that he dispensed 

 with a fly-book and carried his whole outfit on his 

 head. It was a sort of fore-and-aft contrivance with 

 a little tuft upon the top. Now it may have been ten 

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