EPISODICAL 251 



right upstream, and near the top of my cherished stretch 

 I saw a ring of the proper kind, and then another. But 

 still I hesitated. I did not want to walk down good 

 holding water. But still there was nothing rising near me. 

 So very slowly and unwillingly I moved on — almost to 

 within casting distance of the trout — when, close tucked 

 up against the bank, a little below him, I saw three rings 

 in quick succession, and then two more. I dropped my line 

 across the herbage, guessing the distance to a fraction, for 

 the next ring, almost simultaneous with the fall of my cast, 

 absorbed my Orange Quill. There was no end of a rumpus, 

 and a stubborn battle ended over a hundred yards down- 

 stream with the transfer to my bag of a beautiful thick-set, 

 small-headed trout. 



Feeling decidedly better, I went on to see if the fish 

 above was still feeding. He was. Again the fly lit exactly 

 right at the first cast, again the little nine-footer humped 

 as I pulled home into something that felt like a live snag, 

 and again some way down-stream the net performed its 

 office. 



It was still short of ten o'clock, and I had not covered 

 the entire stretch. So, having washed the slime from my 

 fly, I sped back, drying it the while in amadou. Sure 

 enough, close under the bank another fish was rising at 

 short intervals at inches only from the bank. It was, 

 in that owl's light, a chance whether a second cast would 

 be possible if the first failed, for a hang up seemed a cer- 

 tainty. But again the beautiful little rod did its work 

 perfectly. The fly lit three inches above the last ring but 

 one, and in a moment was gone in the last. 



The fish was quite soundly hooked (in the tongue as it 

 proved), and he came in, compared with the others, some- 

 what speedily; but then each of them had put up a very 

 specially big battle. He made the third of a glorious leash 



