The man on the bridge stood very still. His back was towards me. His accoutrements proclaimed him an angler. I arrived and jovially greeted him.
He returned my salutation; coldly, I thought. I said, "Are you Mr. Purfling?" He admitted that he was. In my own name he appeared to take no interest, so I told it to him. He said, "Ah!"
Now when "Ah!" is all a man has to say about your name, you detest him. I detested Purfling, but I went on being polite. I asked if there was any fly showing yet. He replied that he had seen one female Baetis rhodani, A suspicion entered my mind. I thanked him for the information, and said that it sounded a rather difficult insect to imitate. "For myself," I added, "I generally stick on an Olive Dun here at this time of the morning in May." He smiled indulgently. "I see," he said, "that I ought to have said Olive Dun." "It would have been better," said I. "I am no scholar." I began to grease my line with a piece of ham fat which I had cut off for that purpose at breakfast, having forgotten to bring any vaseline to Willows. When I had smeared it all over the line and my hands and my trousers, I looked up to find him regarding me with obvious contempt.
