PATCHING AND SELSEY 29 



have done the bigger half before you get to it. 

 At Angmering, the Ram, a much larger and 

 more pretentious establishment, came in, I 

 believe, for coaching purposes. Of both, as 

 of Squire Gratwicke's park, I have pleasant 

 memories, dating back I must not say how many 

 years, and in the beginning built on an unprofit- 

 able system of economy and thrift. Once upon 

 a time I lodged, not my banking account, but 

 personally, with an old stifT-backed wheelwright 

 devoted to fishing after his kind. Nothing 

 pleased this honest man more than to be angling 

 in his way, as I said before, and I invented a 

 scheme to gratify the good chap. We — he was 

 in it so far as distribution went — started a 

 money-box as follows : each night I cleared my 

 pockets of all coppers and banked them. Unless 

 you have tried this dodge for founding and filling 

 a stocking you could never believe how the 

 mony mickles bulk into a quite appreciable 

 muckle. As soon as the latter had sufficiently 

 grown, off we — self and the wheeler — would be to 

 Patching Pond for a day's fishing from a rather 

 leaky old boat on the reed-bordered waters, and 

 caught perch by the score — little ones mostly, 

 that were put back, if they didn't prick our hands 

 too much with their spiky spines. We divided 

 the labour equally. I caught the fish, partner 

 was in the outing more than the regular fishing 

 line. He was told off to bale out and potir out. 

 The last-mentioned function he performed with 

 wonderful ease, precision, and perseverance. 

 Happy days, or big bits of them, I have spent 

 on that old pond (I call it old in a companionable, 

 affectionate sense), in the sweet air, with no 

 sound except, maybe, a swallow's splashing as it 



