x THREE WILD DAYS 171 



tottering to destruction, a bending rod 

 showed that a seventh or, it might be, even 

 an eighth fish was being added to the basket. 

 A pious wish was uttered that the ruins 

 might miss that heroic being, and then the 

 hasty flight was resumed. Such a gale surely 

 there was never yet on sea or land ; the 

 poplars below the bridge were bending like 

 fly-rods and creaking like a rusty winch ; 

 other more stubborn trees were being de- 

 stroyed piecemeal ; but in the bridge itself 

 and its high embankment there was hope 

 they could hardly be blown down. And 

 behind there was a welcome calm, in which 

 a perturbed angler might collect his 

 faculties, and presently, for sheer shame, 

 I put a fly- rod together. It would be 

 possible to cast within a few yards of the 

 embankment, and the dace might, like the 

 perch, be on the feed, out of a spirit of pure 

 contradiction. 



And, oddly enough, this proved to be 

 the case. A pluck at one of the three flies 

 was felt at the first cast it was impossible 

 to see a rise. At the second a fish fastened, 

 and was landed without much ceremony. 

 In such weather the finest tackle would 



