6 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
the water was the trophy immediately returned. 
It is a deed which inspires in me mingled regret 
and pride even now. 
Later on came the proud, personal possession 
of a fly-rod. It cost nine shillings and sixpence, 
exactly, at a local ironmonger’s shop. Nine shillings 
and sixpence! ‘Was ever rod like it? Its butt 
came to bear marks, crude notches, indicating a 
series of later triumphs from the same little river. 
These trout were on the small side. If, now and 
again, one of better size rose at the fly, nothing 
happened—the trout seemed to avoid the hook. 
One night, however, there was a thrilling adventure. 
With a longer cast than usual, the wet fly covered 
a feeding fish. Suddenly the water swirled ; there 
was a commotion, such a to-do! It must have 
been a two-pounder, and a two-pound trout in 
the hands of—or rather at the end of the line of— 
a young and an inexperienced angler isa sensation. 
It was like being held by an electric battery. 
“Hold him tight!” shouted a friend who was 
fishing hard by. The sound advice came too late, 
or rather the big trout went too early. For he 
was off! The disturbance in the water calmed 
down, and the line came back with that feeling of 
emptiness with which most of us are familiar ! 
Good fortune did come, however. One night, 
just on the darkening, as they say in Scotland, a 
quiet rise was spotted, and the fly was thrown to 
the right place. It was accepted. Down went 
the acceptor, and kept down, sure sign of a trout 
well-hooked. It seemed much too big for me to 
