94 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
On the Monday we had a good half-day at 
the fishing. The cartage contractor soon got 
into trouble with his float, but the saving grace 
of humour impelled him to suggest a visit to one 
of these good-natured farmers “to borrow a milk 
float.” The plumber was happy: “Oh, I’m 
quite at home, plumbing the depth ; it keeps my 
hand in.” No luck came to the share of either. 
No merry stabbing of the water, no disappearance 
of the quill, took place this time. The cartage 
contractor, in rendering his report, was sparkling, 
“ And I had given the fish my telephone number, 
too! Being now in a brewing county, I thought 
it appropriate—t Hop 2386’: it seemed a sure 
way to get ‘line engaged.’” Neither was down- 
hearted ; each looked to a glorious morrow. The 
grayling were lying at that season chiefly in the 
tails of the fords, and, as bottom fishers are 
restricted to the bankside, it is difficult for them 
to get the best spots. But there was no lack 
of fish, for the Teme is an ideal stream for gray- 
ling, and is well stocked with them. My efforts 
with the fly proved unavailing for some time, 
though an occasional fish came short atme. Two 
fly-fishermen passed. One had done nothing: the 
other had three brace, though “ coming short” was 
his verdict, too. 
But at length my blank was broken, Off a 
shallow a good grayling, though not rising, was 
to be seen, and,’as soon as the dry fly, a pattern 
as much like a red quill as the box supplied, fell 
over him, he made an upward dart, and the rest 
