168 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
seriously ill. We were two hundred and fifty 
miles away from London at the time, but ignoring 
both fishing and distance, the Major went off 
by the next train to see his old friend. These 
things were typical of the man; and it would 
be typical of him, if he knew what I was saying 
about him, to ejaculate, “You blithering idiot ! 
Cut it out !” 
One never knew, in the course of a long 
holiday, what interesting personality one would 
meet, either when fishing or when seeing the 
country. Calling one day at a hotel on the Welsh 
border, I found that the host was formerly a 
member of the Metropolitan police force ; testi- 
monials and addresses on the walls showed good 
work done. At another hotel, in the neighbour- 
hood of which the rivers Lugg and Arrow meet, 
I was struck by the musical speaking voice of the 
landlord. I later remarked on this to a friend, 
who told me that mine host used to be a member 
of Lincoln’s Inn choir, that he afterwards joined 
the Temple choir; and that he had sung at the 
coronations of King Edward and King George. 
Another landlord, of an inn in a Shropshire 
town, was one of the best fishermen in the town 
and district, and he was also the possessor of quite 
a valuable collection of antiques. He loved his 
collection, and though he had been offered two 
thousand pounds for the contents of one room, 
he could not part with the things. They “be- 
longed” to him. In collecting them, year after 
year, in arranging them, and tending them—as 
