Such was the scene of my encounter with Mr. Blennerhassett.
I had been waiting during two hours for something to happen. At last it happened. It was a very unpromising little ring, but (because one never knows) I cast over it two or three times. Then I sat down waiting for it to happen again.
Something else happened.
Down the bank—the bank, mark you! not the meadow—two feet from the verge, as I live—came striding a handsome, healthy young man, ruddy, caparisoned for angling. He held his head high, his chest thrown out. A moustache bristled upwards from his lips. As he perceived me a look of haughty disdain disfigured his personable face. He came forward authoritatively. A willow forced him out of the direct path, and so, without disturbing my fish (if it was still there), he reached my side. He was good enough to inquire if I had done anything. I said that I had just failed to hook a fish. He said that he hadn't seen a damned thing all morning. I asked if this was Mr. Blennerhassett. He said it was, and asked me what was the best fly. I told him what I thought was the best fly. He asked me what I thought was the best place at this time of day. I told him the Mill, which is at the extreme top of the water. He said he had
