his neighbour a poke in the ribs, as though to let him know that they must clear out. . . The brigadier began to move on the seat.
'Sit still, I beg; don't disturb yourselves,' I hastened to say. 'You won't interfere with us in the least. We'll take up our position here; sit still.'
Cucumber wrapped his ragged smock round him, twitched his shoulders, his lips, his beard. . . Obviously he felt our presence oppressive and he would have been glad to slink away, . . . but the brigadier was again lost in the contemplation of his float. . . The 'ne'er-do-weel' coughed twice, sat down on the very edge of the seat, put his hat on his knees, and, tucking his bare legs up under him, he discreetly dropped in his line.
'Any bites?' Narkiz inquired haughtily, as in leisurely fashion he unwound his reel.
'We've caught a matter of five loaches,' answered Cucumber in a cracked and husky voice: 'and he took a good-sized perch.'
'Yes, a perch,' repeated the brigadier in a shrill pipe.
VI
I fell to watching closely—not him, but his reflection in the pond. It was as clearly reflected as in a looking-glass—a little darker, a
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