188 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
The Major, too, had a sad experience. He and 
I had a permit for a day on a strictly preserved 
water, and the old pony in the jingle landed us, 
supremely happy, in the forenoon at a spot about 
seven miles from home. We were just about to 
put our tackle together, when the Major ex- 
claimed : “There! I’ve left my fishing bag, with 
my reel, casts, and all my flies, behind at the 
hotel, or dropped it on the road.” We came to 
the conclusion it could not possibly have dropped 
out of the jingle. The Major rose to great 
heights. He was philosophical and would not 
hear of my going back. “You go on with the 
fishing, old chap, and I’ll be back in the after- 
noon.” So off he drove, and I, feeling heavy- 
hearted and somewhat selfish, went on fishing. 
But the trout were rising, and I fear I did not 
let my uneasy conscience prevent me from taking 
advantage of the fact. Three or four hours later 
he returned with his fishing bag, and he had rare 
sport after all ; indeed, by 7 p.m., when we started 
for home, he had nearly caught me up. The old 
pony that day had done nearly thirty miles. If 
there are such things as stable prayers a petition 
surely went up that night, “. .. and please do 
not let these fly-fishermen be so careless again, 
for my feet still ‘vex me’” (as they say in 
Wales). 
Another angler told me that once when he got 
to the waterside he discovered he had left his reel 
behind him, and was correspondingly depressed. 
However, he betook him to the water-bailiffs 
