Part 9 (1/2)

”I shall watch you, Major, instead of fis.h.i.+ng myself,” said the Vicar.

”Where do you propose going?”

”To the red water,” said the Major. Accordingly they turn down a long, deep lane, which looks certainly as if it would lead one to a red brook, for the road and banks are of a brick-colour. And so it does, for presently before them they discern a red mill, and a broad, pleasant ford, where a crystal brook dimples and sparkles over a bed of reddish-purple pebbles.

”It is very clear,” says the Major. ”What's the fly to be, Vicar?”

”That's a very hard question to answer,” says the Vicar. ”Your Scotchman, eh? or a small blue dun?”

”We'll try both,” says the Major; and in a very short time it becomes apparent that the small dun is the man, for the trout seem to think that it is the very thing they have been looking for all day, and rise at it two at a time.

They fish downwards; and after killing half-a-dozen half-pound fish, come to a place where another stream joins the first, making it double its original size, and here there is a great oak-root jutting into a large deep pool.

The Vicar stands back, intensely excited. This is a sure place for a big fish. The Major, eager but cool, stoops down and puts his flies in just above the root at once; not as a greenhorn would, taking a few wide casts over the pool first, thereby standing a chance of hooking a little fish, and ruining his chance for a big one; and at the second trial a deep-bodied brown fellow, about two pounds, dashes at the treacherous little blue, and gulps him down.

Then what a to-do is there. The Vicar jumping about on the gra.s.s, giving all sorts of contradictory advice. The Major, utterly despairing of ever getting his fish ash.o.r.e, fighting a losing battle with infinite courage, determined that the trout shall remember him, at all events, if he does get away. And the trout, furious and indignant, but not in the least frightened, trying vainly to get back to the old root. Was there ever such a fish?

But the Major is the best man, for after ten minutes troutie is towed up on his side to a convenient shallow, and the Vicar puts on his spectacles to see him brought ash.o.r.e. He scientifically pokes him in the flank, and spans him across the back, and p.r.o.nounces EX CATHEDRA--

”You'll find, sir, there won't be a finer fish, take him all in all, killed in the parish this season.”

”Ah, it's a n.o.ble sport,” says the Major. ”I shan't get much more of it, I'm afraid.”

”Why shouldn't you?”

”Well, I'll tell you,” says the Major. ”Do you know how much property I have got?”

”No, indeed.”

”I have only ten thousand pounds; and how am I to bring up a family on the interest of that?”

”I should fancy it was quite enough for you,” said the Vicar; ”you have only one son.”

”How many more am I likely to have, eh? And how should I look to find myself at sixty with five boys grown up, and only 300L. a-year?”

”That is rather an extreme case,” said the Vicar; ”you would be poor then, certainly.”

”Just what I don't want to be. Besides wanting to make some money, I am leading an idle life here, and am getting very tired of it. And so--”

he hesitated.

”And so?” said the Vicar.

”I am thinking of emigrating. To New South Wales. To go into the sheep-farming line. There.”

”There indeed,” said the Vicar. ”And what has put you up to it?”

”Why, my wife and I have been thinking of going to Canada for some time, and so the idea is not altogether new. The other day Hamlyn (you know him) showed me a letter from a cousin of his who is making a good deal of money there. Having seen that letter, I was much struck with it, and having made a great many other inquiries, I laid the whole information before my wife, and begged her to give me her opinion.”

”And she recommended you to stay at home in peace and comfort,”

interposed the Vicar.