cut across the water. Now on every day on which I fished during that May and most of that June, the river was very high and the wind was from the right, strong and down stream. So, unless the line was thrown very loosely on to the water the heavy current caught it instantly, the fly was dragged out into the middle with a wake like a motor-boat and the fish was put down.
The position from my point of view was deplorable. For who was I—who am I, just Heaven!—to spare line when I am throwing to a fish twenty yards away?
Nevertheless, stimulated by the sight of the fence, I waded through the Running Ditch and wallowed through the wet grass, as yet not very high (though very wet), till I was able to look at the water. My fish was hard at work. Nothing that came his way went past him. I could see him plainly—a good trout about 2 lb. weight lying just under the bank in a little bay. I made my dispositions—my ridiculous, presumptuous dispositions. I tied on some silly fly or other—unless I had one on already, which vital point in my narrative I confess I forget. I got out my absurd line; I made my asinine allowance for the wind, and I cast. When the wind and the current had done their worst with my lure, the fish had gone away.
