OF THE PERFECT THRILL 161 



away, resolved to invite him to my home one day 

 soon and paralyse him with my unsuspected skill. 



Two months passed, and I had not known the 

 perfect thrill. But although my duns had been 

 rejected, hope did not die, for the May-fly was 

 coming on. Making a dun is admittedly a nig- 

 gling job. But a May-fly is a large, robust 

 creature, and its imitation may be attempted with 

 some confidence. It is a thing one can lay hold 

 of and pull about with one's hands. Finesse (or 

 so I thought) is not of the essence of May-fly 

 making. I made a May-fly and went down into 

 Wiltshire, the premonition of the perfect thrill 

 already tingling at my nerve centres. 1 cast my 

 line towards a magnificent trout and waited for 

 the result. The trout, giving one glance of terror 

 upwards, fled for its life into a thick bunch of 

 weeds, while the surface of the river Clere was 

 broken in every direction by the torpedo rushes 

 of great fish which were copying his discreet 

 example. 



I now lost a good deal of my interest in fly- 

 tying. I made up my mind to master it in the 

 winter, when time cannot be wasted. A little 

 later I went to that island in the Arctic Circle 

 where MacAlister and I found out the inner truth 

 of flounder-fishing. Here such fish as the poachers 

 had left to us were innocent of guile. I caught 



M 



