26 A SCOTTISH FLY-FISHER 



a flying visit to a water until then unknown to him, 

 and leaves it with the heaviest basket of the season, or 

 in possession of the great trout to which the habitues 

 have been for weeks assiduously, but vainly, devoting 

 all their energies. 



I have been but once afloat on the bosom of that 

 Queen of Scottish Waters, the beautiful and famed 

 Loch Lomond, and my stay was of short duration. 



We landed, my friend 

 and I, on the pier of 

 the little village of Luss, 

 in the midst of a storm 

 of wind and rain that 

 seemed portentous of a 

 second Deluge. But though, outside, the elements 

 were warring loudly, within the hotel their reigned 

 a depressing quiet. Members of the staff moved noise- 

 lessly about, while in the smoking-room moped a party 

 of dejected anglers, like another party in another place, 

 "all silent and" — apparently — "all damned"; more 

 dismal than mutes at a funeral, for their sorrow was 

 unfeigned. They had been given occasion for their 

 gloom. It was Friday evening, and the week seemed 

 likely to expire without witnessing the capture of a fish. 

 Our prospects, painted in hope's richest hues, became 



