I threw too low down, and only just saved my cast from the snag.
The next time the fly went right over him—no, he wouldn't touch—when, splash! and my reel was ringing out with a lovely buzz, and the rod was bent to its straining point.
By Jove! What a beautiful trout! How he dashed about, now to one bank, now to the other. If only I had a friend with me to land my prize.
A harsh voice broke in on my thoughts.
"Give us the net, Guv'nor; I'll land him for you."
I looked round, and saw a ragged, dirty-looking man, with loafer and vagabond written in his coarse face and bleared eyes.
"Do you know how?" I inquired hurriedly.
He laughed a rasping guffaw.
"Do I know how! I 'specs I've caught more trout than you've ever thought of," he said. "Does old Bob Gye know how?"
"All right," I snapped; "take the net, then, and don't stand there laughing in that silly way."
He certainly did his part of the work well, and the eyes of the old poacher, as I suspected him to be, glistened as he held up a lovely fish well over three pounds.
