56 AN ANGLER'S HOURS m 



It was evidently not his real home, for he 

 rushed down-stream at once to the bottom 

 pool until he came to the old stump in the 

 middle of it. He was under it before the 

 angler, in hot pursuit, could realise the 

 danger. That is why his feet are wet ; he 

 had to wade in up to his knees to grub 

 about under the stump with the handle of 

 his landing-net so that he might dislodge 

 the fish. By a miracle he succeeded, and 

 he is as proud of that half-pounder in his 

 basket as he has ever been of a trout in his 

 life. In a pool higher up another good fish 

 which he hooked did the same thing, and 

 though the angler waded in even deeper and 

 poked even more vigorously it got off and 

 he was left lamenting. That fish, he main- 

 tains, was fully three-quarters of a pound ; 

 but it is the angler's privilege to estimate 

 the weight of the fish he did not catch. 



At the hour at which the feeble folk in 

 cities are drinking nerve-destroying tea (not 

 but that our friend would accept and even 

 thank you for a cup at this moment, for he 

 has worked hard), he is standing on another 

 bridge about four miles from his starting- 

 point, debating whether he shall work on 



