232 THE WAY OF A TROUT WITH A FLY 



all three balls at billiards, but I never made a more perfect 

 fluke than the cast which fell exactly along the line of 

 the lane, and dropped my Whirling Blue pat on the nose 

 of the trout. He took it unsuspectingly, bolted straight 

 into the open pool, and was presently added to the bag, 

 increasing the weight upon my shoulders by a pound. 



A brace of unsizable fish followed and were returned, 

 and then I came to another open pool. I found myself 

 standing over it under a tree, having approached un- 

 warily, and eying a trout which hung poised in the centre, 

 eying me in turn as if ready to bolt the moment I 

 raised my hand. I did not raise my hand. I kept my 

 eye steadily on the eye of the trout and dropped my 

 Whirling Blue, which I had forgotten to dry and re-oil, 

 with a wrist flick delivered from trouser-pocket level, so 

 that it lit in front of him, rather on the far side from me. 

 What possessed him to take it I cannot conceive, but. take 

 it he did, and was in due course knocked on the head. 



Then there was a change in the humour of the fish, and, 

 I think, in the level of the water — bless the millers ! Though 

 the fish lay out in position to feed, they let the fly, natural 

 as well as artificial, go over them unheeded. Still, it 

 might have been worse. I had had out five brace and 

 killed two and a half brace. 



One o'clock ! ! 



Lunch ! 



FOUR. 



In a certain chalk stream which has not been stocked 

 for many years, but breeds its own trout, the two-pounder 

 was, before the war, a comparative rarity. On the length 

 which it has been my privilege to fish for a number of 

 years the annual tale of two-pounders could be counted 

 on the fingers, generally on those of one hand; 1915 

 was an exceptionally good year in this respect, or I 



