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A MEMORY OF THE LUGG 
HE four of us had been offered a day on 
the Lugg and we felt ourselves fortunate 
and gratefully accepted it. We woke 
early to a frosty morning which was in 
itself a good omen for the chances of grayling. 
Thymallus likes a touch of frost at night. We 
started from Tenbury in a motor-car which was 
suffering from bronchial catarrh, but consoled 
ourselves with the thought that Hereford is a 
restful shire for travelling. We were well 
wrapped up, especially the Major, who has 
decided views about the English climate. He 
was covered by that massive sheepskin coat which, 
with his usual kindness, he had insisted on lending 
me for a car drive, one March day, two years 
before, from Dulverton across bleak Exmoor and 
back. This cold-resisting coat was the cause, he 
told us, of a picturesque little incident. Attired 
in it, he was standing not long before outside his 
hotel at Penzance, when suddenly a bright little 
eight-year-old girl danced up to him. “ Oh, have 
you just come from Russia, please ?” 
“No, my dear,” replied the Major, who, 
