132 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
self, by the way, not long ago happily converted 
to the gentle art. It was in a huge R.A.S.C. 
depot, and he wore rubber heels, which made his 
approach, even on a stone floor, quite inaudible. 
Some of us, subalterns at that time, thus suddenly 
visited in our sections, were pleased to say 
(privately) that it was not quite fair! But that 
was many, many years ago—away back in the 
middle of the war. 
At first, until you have had experience of the 
river, you may perhaps wonder who your charm- 
ing visitor is. After the time of day has been 
passed conversation expands. He descants in- 
telligently on the crops, discourses wisely on the 
news of the day. You wonder whether he is 
the squire’s bailiff, just having a walk round 
the farms, or some farmer taking the air for the 
good of his health, and glad to pass a few remarks 
with a stranger. Then, as you think he is pre- 
paring to depart, and you begin to brace yourself 
up for a long cast to cover that rising fish on the 
other side, a slight change is to be detected in his 
accent, which assumes a velvety tone, as he says: 
“ Will you kindly show me your licence, sir?” 
It insinuates, as plainly as possible, “I know of 
course a gentleman like you would not be fishing 
unless you had a licence, and I am asking only as 
a mere matter of form.” The good man is doing 
his duty. The manner of his doing it reminds 
me how I once went to cash a cheque at a bank 
in Egypt. On presenting it, I said to the clerk, 
a stranger, “‘I have the money in the bank.” 
