recommended, and steps into the water. Oh, how cold it is! I begin
casting at the top of the stream, and step from a big boulder into a
hole. Stagger, stumble, violent bob forwards, recovery, trip up, and
here one is in a sitting position in the bed of the stream. However,
the high india-rubber breeks have kept the water out, except about a
pailful, which gradually illustrates the equilibrium of fluids in the
soles of one's stockings. However, I am on my feet again, and walking
more gingerly, though to the spectator, my movements suggest partial
intoxication. That is because the bed of the stream is full of
boulders, which one cannot see, owing to the darkness of the water.
There was a fish rose near the opposite side. My heart is in my mouth.
I wade in as far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe with the rod. A
frantic tug behind, crash, there goes the top of the rod! I am caught
up in the root of a pine-tree, high up on the bank at my back. No
use in the language of imprecation. I waddle out, climb the bank,
extricate the fly, get out a spare top, and to work again, more
cautiously. Something wrong, the hook has caught in my coat, between
my shoulders. I must get the coat off somehow, not an easy thing to
do, on account of my india-rubber armour. It is off at last. I cut
the hook out with a knife making a big hole in the coat, and cast
again. That was over him! I let the fly float down, working it
scientifically. No response. Perhaps better look at the fly. Just my
luck, I have cracked it off!

Where is the fly-book? Where indeed? A feverish search for the
fly-book follows--no use: it is not in the basket, it is not in my
pocket; must have fallen out when I fell into the river. No good in
looking for it, the water is too thick, I _thought_ I heard a splash.
Luckily there are some flies in my cap, it looks knowing to have
some flies in one's cap, and it is not so easy to lose a cap, without