VIII 

 FRANKLY IMMORAL 



MAKESHIFT. 



I got down to the cricket-field at Winchester in time to 

 see the players returning to the pavilion with the last 

 wicket of the fourth innings down, and I felt stranded. I 

 always had a rod at the keeper's, but my reels were in 

 town. So were my fly-boxes and landing-net, and I 

 had no creel. Still, I had a cast I had bought that 

 morning at the Army and Navy Stores, half a dozen points 

 in the little wallet I carry with me in my breast pocket, 

 and in a little tin box some eight flies that I had dressed 

 by way of passing the time on the way down in the train 

 from Waterloo. Two little starling- winged flies with 

 pale olive hackle and body like a GreenwelTs Glory, 

 two Spinners with crimson seal-fur's body and gold wire 

 rib, two Iron-blue nymphs with jackdaw- throat hackle, 

 and two Tup's Indispensables. There was nothing better 

 to do, and if my friend " Fleur-de-Lys " had been weak 

 enough to leave his Uniqua at the keeper's, it might be 

 possible to rig up enough of an outfit to pass away pleasantly, 

 if not profitably, the June afternoon and evening that 

 were before me. 



So somehow I found myself at the keeper's tucking my 

 trousers into the top of my socks, donning my rubber 

 knee-boots, and taking my little nine-foot Leonard from 

 its case. For " Fleur-de-Lys " had imprudently left his 

 Uniqua with the line he uses for his nine-footer. Also 



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