290 AN ANGLER AT LARGE 



The heart is black that can plot mischief to this 

 excellent creature. How many years of joyous 

 dun-devouring life are before him ? Five ten- 

 twenty ? I see him, a portly ten-pounder, living 

 for ever, for ever stemming this crystal stream 

 with fins that grow broader and stronger, the 

 intoxicating gold and green, vermilion, brown, and 

 blue of his scales growing deeper, richer, more and 

 more splendid. "No," says Argument, "not for 

 ever. And ultimately ? An old, lean, blind, 

 diseased fish, dying by inches. Have him out ? " 

 And I have him out. 



But while I am doing it, should I work him into 

 still water, can I, while he swims slowly round and 

 round, always in sight, wholly persuade myself that 

 he feels no pain. I grant his horny mouth. But 

 is fear no pain ? And does this fish feel no fear ? 

 Fear glares from his eyes. He is stricken with it. 

 And against fear he fights, as well as against gut 

 and split cane. I have given this fish seven 

 minutes of utter terror. It is not a comforting 

 thought. I put it away from me. 



And now he is in the net. Now he lies at my 

 feet, staring a dull, foolish reproach at me. At 

 this point I have to be very quick if I mean to take 

 that trout home with me. He lies in my hand, 

 passive, dignified, demeaning himself by no futile 

 wriggles. He owns the Lord of Creation. Whang ! 



