22, THE TROUT ARE RISING 
perhaps he has sound reasons for discretion. In 
Somerset, in 1917, one visitor slipped off to the 
extreme end of a long reach, a hitherto neglected 
part of the hotel water, and for the ordinary wet 
flies he substituted a dry fly. He secured an 
unusually good bag. “Where did you get 
them ? What was the fly ?” greeted him on his 
proud return. He duly answered all questions. 
Farly next morning he was again at the same 
spot. But he found himself one of a crowd! So 
for the future he vowed reticence. 
In many little ways, of course, anglers are— 
just human. But take them all in all, they are 
sportsmen; kindly, considerate, and good to 
know. I once met unselfishness personified in 
a stranger, a dry-fly fisherman on the Colne at 
Thorney Weir, West Drayton, which is but a 
few miles from Paddington. From the R.A.S.C. 
depét at Deptford I had slipped over for an 
evening’s fishing. It was early in May, and I 
was quite unprepared for the Mayfly being up. 
But there they were, and the water was thick 
with them. (Once, by the way, I saw Mayflies 
in swarms at West Drayton railway station.) 
The unknown angler, with a cordial greeting, at 
once enquired if I had brought artificial Mays. 
I had to say “ No,” of course. ‘Well, then, I 
shall give you some,” he immediately said. 
When I hesitated, he insisted: “Come, come; 
you must take them. You know you would 
have given me some if you had found me with- 
out any.” Reluctance then vanished. A perfect 
