my line tied to its tip; three twisted strands from the tail of my good grey mare, and my two great bouncing bumbles fashioned by these fingers from the hackles of my old game-cock that died gloriously in Will Andrews' pit a sennight come Tuesday." As I looked at the dreadful tackle my heart swelled with pity for the man. But he had said something about good sport. Well, there were chub in this part of the river; he might conceivably have caught a brace of chub.
"And yet," he went on, "see what I have taken." As he spoke he unslung his creel, inverted it, and upon the grass there poured a cascade of trout—fat, golden, ponderous. Instinctively I removed my hat. Lunatic or fantastic, here was my master. "These be a dozen and three," he said in a satisfied voice. "The others are above, concealed beneath a bush. These, since seven of the clock." "The others!" I gasped: "how many, in Heaven's name?" "Three score and two," he announced simply. "Look you!"—he moved the heap of fish with his hand, and disclosed a stupendous fish of about 6 lb. weight—"here is a shapely gentleman. A gladsome time he gave me, forcing me to cast all twice to the river. But the floating wand betrayed him. I rode my pony in to him, and now he is mine!"
"You rode your pony?" "Ay, marry! I'm
