AN ANGLER'S HOURS vi 



had the white waves been heaving high, as 

 even a convalescent has a right to expect 

 when fishing for pike in February, had the 

 still small voice of science been drowned by 

 a conflict of the elements, I should never 

 have thought of using a ridiculous gut trace 

 (on which Izaak Walton himself could 

 scarce have landed a minnow), and that 

 sixteen - pounder would have been mine. 

 Besides, I was no longer convalescent, and 

 boisterous weather was what I needed was 

 no less than my due. In a word, my medi- 

 tations were supremely ungrateful, and I 

 was justly punished when the wind dropped 

 altogether, February became more like May 

 than ever, and not another fish moved for 

 the rest of the day. 



On the morrow, however, there was a 

 real south-westerly wind and a fine ripple 

 on the water. Pike, I reflected, as I 

 mounted an eight- inch dace on a Pennell 

 spinning-flight, have been known to run at 

 a bait twice in a day, twice even in an hour, 

 almost, even, twice in a minute. It was 

 therefore logical to expect the sixteen- 

 pounder that morning. Yet, by the time a 

 third of the water had been carefully spun 



