166 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
home, on the continent, many pictures of New 
Zealand waters and incidents, scenes in the South 
Sea Islands—it was the record of a mighty 
traveller. Though I had seen comparatively 
little of him the Major and his travels stayed in 
my memory. 
Then, after the war, we met unexpectedly 
again at a little hotel in Devonshire. I bless the 
day. The memory of those two or three little 
chats at Dulverton two years previously seemed 
to have made us old friends—that is one of the 
charms of angling, if you please—and all through 
the season we fished much together, for chance 
brought us together on other occasions, 
So long as he is by a river the Major is 
happy. Now and again he would not fish, but 
would come with me, and watch, and if he could 
put his little New Zealand hatchet to good use 
he was indeed a boy at school. Be it said, though, 
that he never used it to do damage, only to repair 
disaster. When he came as spectator, his com- 
panionship was quite an education. It was never 
superior, patronizing knowledge he threw at one. 
Patronage is not pleasant ; indeed it is insuffer- 
able. But good-humoured chaff, such as he gave 
me, was both interesting and useful. I would 
throw over a rising fish, and when it rose to my 
fly I would strike—maybe a fraction of a second 
too late. The Major would remark : “ Promising 
style, just a trifle too late ; exactly three minutes, 
twenty seconds too late. I timed you by my 
watch!” I gave him plenty of occasion for such 
