AT THE INN. 145 
the landlady, cheery soul, who at once greeted 
him with: “ There! and I thought I had packed 
you all off for the rest of the day!” | grasped my 
forgotten packet and fled ! 
Blessed be meadow and stream, which give 
the hard-working landlady and her staff a chance 
to get on with the day’s work ! 
Fishermen as a race seem to be trusted by the 
landlord. I remember having a delightful and 
successful holiday at a bungalow-hotel in Natal, 
which lay on a height overlooking the Mooi 
river. I had been fishing up to the very last 
minute, and was leaving in a hurry ; in fact the 
horses were inspanned already for the long journey. 
“ Bill, please, landlord!” said I. “Oh,” replied 
he, “‘ there’s no time now ; I'll post it on to you.” 
“But,” I asked, ‘‘isn’t that rather risky ?” 
“Never been done down by a fisherman yet,” 
answered he. Who could help sending the 
cheque very promptly when the bill arrived? It 
made one feel that the honour of fishermen as a 
race was at stake. 
An amusing instance of easy-going trust in 
fishermen occurred at a country hotel in the West 
of England. At luncheon or dinner, when an 
order for the bar was given, the guest would 
expect to sign the usual chit. No chit was 
forthcoming, though the refreshment soon was. 
Asked about it, the waitress said, “Oh, you pay 
in the bar afterwards.” You were never asked 
definitely to pay for it, in the bar, or anywhere 
else. Of course everybody made—or was supposed 
L 
