THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS
or better- tempered face. He leaned his delicate ten-foot split cane rod against the bridge and looked with me at the water.
"Clear, isn't it?" he said pleasantly. "I back our Kennet any day against the Test. Look at that big fellow! Four pounds, if he's an ounce! But the evening rise is over and you can't tempt 'em."
"I don't see him," said I.
"Look! There! A yard from the reeds just above that stickle."
"I've got him now. You might swear he was a black stone."
"So," he said, and whistled another bar of "Annie Laurie."
"Twisden's the name, isn't it?" he said over his shoulder, his eyes still fixed on the stream.
"No," I said. "I mean to say yes." I had forgotten all about my alias.
"It's a wise conspirator that knows his own name," he observed, grinning broadly at a moor-hen that emerged from the bridge's shadow.
I stood up and looked at him, at his square
160
