great weed-bed above; the man had but about ten feet square of swift
water to kill the trout in. Not a foot down-stream could he take
him; in fact, he had to pull him hard up-stream to keep him out of
his hover in the alder roots. Three times that fish leapt into the
air nearly a yard high; and yet, so merciful is luck, and so firmly
was he hooked, in five breathless minutes he was in the landing-net;
and when he was there and safe ashore, just of the shape and colour
of a silver spoon, his captor lay down panting upon the bank, and
with Sir Hugh Evans, manifested 'a great disposition to cry.' But it
was a beautiful sight. A sharper round between man and fish never
saw I fought in Merry England.

I saw once, however, a cleverer, though not a more dashing feat. A
handy little fellow (I wonder where he is now?) hooked a trout of
nearly three pounds with his dropper, and at the same moment a post
with his stretcher. What was to be done? To keep the fish pulling
on him, and not on the post. And that, being favoured by standing on
a four-foot bank, he did so well that he tired out the fish in some
six feet square of water, stopping him and turning him beautifully
whenever he tried to run, till I could get in to him with the
landing-net. That was five-and-thirty years since. If the little
man has progressed in his fishing as he ought, he should be now one
of the finest anglers in England.

* * * * *

So. Thanks to bank fishing, we have, you see, landed three or four
more good fish in the last two hours--And! What is here? An ugly
two-pound chub, Chevin, 'Echevin,' or Alderman, as the French call
him. How is this, keeper? I thought you allowed no such vermin in