A Sportsman at Large 5 



Apropos my paternal progenitor, here is a story which 

 illustrates his gentle and homely character. By the time I 

 was eight years old, I was something of an artist at pond- 

 fishing. At our picturesque home, Moat Mount, Highwood 

 Hill the highest point in the county of Middlesex there are 

 two sheets of water which I plied most industriously, one 

 situated close to the mansion itself and dubbed the Barton 

 (Zummerzet vur " varm ") pond, contained roach, rudd and 

 carp ; the last named species affording specimens up to six 

 or seven pounds. These were wily customers, the capture of 

 which called for strategy and tactics of the most thoughtful 

 and painstaking nature. But, even at that early age, I 

 occasionally managed to outwit these corpulent fishes. 



Came a day when I had been guilty of some unforgivable 

 lapse, the deep-dyed turpitude of which was rendered even 

 more unspeakable by reason of my having in an attempt 

 to avoid well-merited retribution descended to a mendacity 

 such as would have caused the late lamented George, of the 

 Washington ilk, to turn in his distant grave. 



So insufferable had been my backsliding on this occasion, 

 that The Mums sorrowfully came to the conclusion that 

 castigation, of a thorough and intimate character, was the only 

 suitable penalty to meet the case. She insisted that her 

 superior moiety should take upon himself the office of ad- 

 ministrator. What is more, she provided a stout ashplant, 

 which she thrust into his hands, bidding him seek the culprit 

 and proceed to execution. Such an office was not altogether 

 to the taste of The Dads. Indeed, he wandered off and took 

 cover in a clump of rhododendron bushes ; but the eagle eye 

 of his life's partner was upon him, so he was routed out and 

 admonished to get busy. 



The June sun had just dipped below the horizon when I 

 stealthily approached the swim in the Barton pond which I 

 had baited up in the morning with boiled potatoes, kneaded 

 up with stiff clay. 



Soon the quarter-section of my wine-bottle cork was floating 

 on the surface of the water, close inshore. I was on the 

 qui vive for potential carp, but oblivious of what The Mums 

 had figured out for my literal and metaphorical undoing. 



