THE DEVONSHIRE AVON 



reservoirs and the like. But his operations were still, 

 and naturally enough, carried on upon his native 

 streams. I know some of these last pretty well myself, 

 and also many of the local fishermen who are justly 

 accounted great men upon them, and with one voice 

 they used to declare that there was no approaching 

 this terrific parson in the matter of a basket. I have 

 often heard them, both gentle and simple, discuss the 

 problem of why and how it was that he never failed 

 to make them all feel second-raters when he descended 

 into their midst. But such was undoubtedly the case, 

 and there are other magicians of this kind in various 

 parts of England, men who for some mysterious reason 

 stand out above the best. It was even said that some 

 owners hesitated to give this one a day's fishing, which 

 merely exhibited their ignorance of the natural history 

 of trout. His patterns of flies were eagerly sought after, 

 and named after his name. But this was no good. 

 The users of them had half-baskets while the parson 

 filled his. He has even been watched by envious 

 professors to see if he has any special patent dodge, 

 but there was obviously nothing of the kind. His 

 execution was apparently precisely the same as that 

 of any other good local fisherman. 



But this brings me back to the gist of the story and 

 the fact that when fishing the Avon some three or 

 four years ago an old local friend officially connected 

 with the river remarked, among other items of gossip, 

 ' We have got a demon fisherman on the river now, 

 a regular otter. He has killed bigger baskets than any 

 one within my memory.' [This last went back fifteen 

 or twenty years.] ' His name,' quoth I. ' Captain 



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