The blank day of yesterday was, considered as a day's fishing, particularly monotonous in its blankness. Between ten in the morning and nightfall my strained eyes may have witnessed perhaps three young grayling dimple the surface of that chalk stream, and once—tremendous moment!—a pike struck. But to a sportsman such as I was that day the doings of the fish were a small matter. Elsewhere than under water the items of my bag were found.
My scientific friend, Slattery, had given me a ticket for the White Water, three miles across the downs. His day's work ended, he was to come out by train for the evening, and we were to walk back together to Willows. I anticipated much pleasure from my day's angling, much from my walk home in the moonlight with Slattery.
Now you shall hear what happened.
From my arrival on the bank until midday, Hope—faithful creature—buoyed me stoutly up. Line greased, gut soaked, pale olive (I had seen one) attached, paraffined, wetted and dried, net ready on hip, I moved up the White Water at the regulation pace (when fish are not moving) of one quarter-mile in the hour. My eye scanned the surface, searched the depths. My ear was cocked for any likely little sound. I was craft incarnate. Towards noon this overwrought condition of my
