254 THE WAY OF A TROUT WITH A FLY 



suspicion. The hook went home, and still the splice held. 

 The fish tore off finely; it bent the rod into a hoop, but 

 still the splice held, and presently it struck me that it 

 was not the top, but the middle joint that was doing 

 the work. The battle became more and more strenuous 

 as its climax approached. Again and again the trout 

 sheered off desperately into deep water as it neared the 

 net. It lashed the surface in a series of frantic struggles, 

 it made long rushes with its back fin out of the water, 

 but at last the net received it, and I laid its lovely length 

 (and depth and width) on the turf. In a season in which 

 the fish had been from May i on in exceptionally fine 

 condition, this was the stoutest, cleanest, best-built trout 

 I had ever had out of Itchen, and the heaviest — three 

 pounds two ounces — and I got him out with a nine-foot 

 rod with the fine end of the top mended, in the dusk, with 

 sticking-plaster. 



