156 MELTON AND HOMESPUN 



away. It was useless crying over " spilt milk," or rather 

 " spilt " trout, however, and, having rigged up a fresh 

 trace, I started off to try my fortune further down the 

 stream. 



Once clear of the alder belt, I had a fine stretch of open 

 water before me, and in some parts the river widened out 

 to quite eighty feet. There were several deep pools in this 

 reach in which, from former experience, I knew lay some 

 lusty trout. 



It was by this time nearly eleven o'clock, and the sun 

 blazingly hot, but, thanks to a cool south-westerly 

 breeze, I was able to continue on my beat in comparative 

 comfort. There were now but very few fish rising, and 

 for perhaps three-quarters of an hour I did not get a 

 touch of any kind. While throwing under the further 

 bank, however, my fly was taken greedily, and in a 

 moment I knew that I was into something heavy. 

 " There's no trout about that gentleman," was my in- 

 ward ejaculation as the fish, after making a wild rush 

 up stream, caved in like a lamb, allowing me to reel him 

 into the bank without a struggle. I was right in my 

 surmise, for my capture proved to be a very handsome 

 chub of nearly three and a half pounds' weight. I was in 

 the act of scaling the fish when a Ruthenian shepherd 

 approached me. After gazing in open-mouthed astonish- 

 ment at my delicate-looking little rod, to the butt of 

 which was attached a bright steel spear-head, the shepherd 

 asked if I speared my fish. Upon showing him the fly 

 and explaining the use of the same, not only did he open 

 his mouth wider than before, but his eyes seemed as 

 though they would bolt out of their sockets, as he half 

 frightenedly examined the tiny lure of steel and feathers. 



