Now, because in those days I still had some troublesome ideas about those things which it is proper for a dry-fly angler to do, I waited there among the great man-eating nettles for ten long minutes, and was just about to release myself when the trout came back and began to gulp duns as if he was mad. On that occasion I put him down four times.
It was on the Sabbath that I named him Bran-Newcome. On this day I drove him off almost at once because my fly, at the first delicate cast, became involved among the hooks and wire of my neighbour's landmark, and I had to stand up and make an exhibition of myself. I went back to London next day, but I was burdened with a great oath to bring Bran-Newcome to grass before the season should be out. One undertakes these obligations lightly, not realising what they mean. Had I been in my senses I should have agreed with myself to consider Bran-Newcome a small, ill-conditioned trout, or I should have remembered that my title to fish for him was dubious. I should have left him to my neighbour behind his rampart. But in truth I was possessed by the fish.
All through May, whenever I was in Willows, I was always going up to that fence to see if he was feeding. My sport higher up and lower down
