246 AN ANGLER AT LARGE 



yellow cat is an evil beast. Continually when I 

 step into the garden I catch, out of the corner of 

 my eye, a glimpse of its tawny hinderlands vanish- 

 ing over the wall. It fears me because I throw 

 stones at it, though Heaven knows it need have no 

 fear. I am not dexterous with pebbles. But I 

 always throw them in the yellow cat's direction, 

 because I am a man and have a right to throw 

 stones at cats, and this cat is the only evil thing in 

 Willows. It wakes me, sweating, out of sweet 

 sleep. Its colours clash. And it eats birds. I 

 have every reason to detest it. Moreover I do. 



I vowed therefore that the yellow cat should not 

 eat this little braggart that hopped, high-piping, 

 among our feet. Conceit is of youth. It would be 

 poor behaviour to condemn the small misery to the 

 yellow cat, because it had thought too highly of 

 itself. Here was an adventurer, an explorer, a sort 

 of fledgling Lieutenant Shackleton. Conceit is also 

 of enterprise. Without it no one would innovate 

 anything. One has to have a pretty good opinion 

 of oneself before one steps off the beaten track. 

 The very action is a self-confident one. But 

 we do not think Lieutenant Shackleton con- 

 ceited. We call him a fine fellow and stand him 

 dinner. 



I decided to stand the fledgling dinner, ay ! and 

 bed and breakfast, till his sprouting wings should 



