80 AN ANGLER AT LARGE 



The blank day of yesterday was, considered 

 as a day's fishing, particularly monotonous in its 

 blankness. Between ten in the morning and 

 nightfall my strained eyes may have witnessed 

 perhaps three young grayling dimple the surface 

 of that chalk stream, and once tremendous 

 moment! a pike struck. But to a sportsman 

 such as I was that day the doings of the fish were 

 a small matter. Elsewhere than under water the 

 items of my bag were found. 



My scientific friend, Slattery, had given me a 

 ticket for the White Water, three miles across 

 the downs. His day's work ended, he was to 

 come out by train for the evening, and we were 

 to walk back together to Willows. I anticipated 

 much pleasure from my day's angling, much from 

 my walk home in the moonlight with Slattery. 



Now you shall hear what happened. 



From my arrival on the bank until midday, 

 Hope faithful creature buoyed me stoutly up. 

 Line greased, gut soaked, pale olive (I had seen 

 one) attached, paraffined, wetted and dried, net 

 ready on hip, I moved up the White Water at the 

 regulation pace (when fish are not moving) of one 

 quarter-mile in the hour. My eye scanned the 

 surface, searched the depths. My ear was cocked 

 for any likely little sound. I was craft incarnate. 

 Towards noon this overwrought condition of my 



