A MEMORY OF THE LUGG 119 
with such freshness and zest. As you read him 
you are with him all the time on the river bank. 
Two or three miles beyond Mortimer’s Cross, 
the scene of the battle which secured the throne 
for Edward IV., brought us to our starting point. 
Close to a bridge was a stationary caravan, used 
as fishing headquarters, and this marked the end 
of our journey. 
“Are you gentlemen in possession of a 
permit?” the keeper courteously inquired, and 
the production of the warrant, duly signed by 
the kind lady who had given us permission, eased 
his mind. He wished us good sport, with the 
comfortable assurance that there were grayling in 
the river. 
The frost was still pretty keen and tying on 
flies with benumbed fingers was not easy. The 
Major, who lavished testimonials on “this 
climate,” was the first to complete his equipment. 
Long service in the army perhaps helped him in 
this respect. His evolution as a grayling fisher- 
man had been interesting. Before coming to the 
Teme he had done very little of it. He had 
caught a few, but did not think much of them, 
and had never considered it worth while to take 
them seriously. The Teme fishing, however, 
had fascinated him, and he now spoke of the 
graceful, gliding grayling with respect, even with 
admiration. He had experienced, and learned to 
appreciate, the fighting qualities of November 
grayling, braced by crisp vigorous weather. 
Always careful with his first cast, like the shrewd 
