62 A SCOTTISH FLY-FISHER 



importance, the layman, addressing me, asked if he 

 might see my flies. It appeared that I too was to 

 gather of the crumbs that fell from his table. The re- 

 quest filled me with dismay ; it was foolish, I know, but 

 I hesitated to expose my poverty in the presence of so 

 much wealth so ostentatiously displayed. Courtesy, 

 however, forbade a refusal, and reluctantly producing 

 the degraded remains of a once reputable fly-book, I 

 placed them in his hands. The wretched old book had 

 been in my possession for years, and had known much 

 adversity ; it had been times without number in the 

 basket among my fish ; it had been more than once in 

 the water ; and it had lain during an entire night on a 

 Highland hillside, exposed to the fury of the elements. 

 It was battered, and worn, and so decrepit that it 

 threatened to fall to pieces at a touch. It was, besides, 

 as thin, almost, as a shadow, for it held but the few flies 

 I had deemed sufficient for the short stay I intended 

 making at the inn. It was an object of pity, yet such as 

 it was I passed it to him. He received it gingerly, and 

 opened it with care, and glancing — a glance sufficed — 

 at its poor contents, said, in accents of commiseration 

 and contempt commingled, " Your flies are quite use- 

 less. Neither in size nor in colour are they at all suit- 

 able for this loch, and it will be miraculous if you take 



