with the next we hook a trout.  He makes a tremendous rush, and runs the reel merrily.  We manage to keep him out of the weeds and land him—­a silvery “Loch Leven,” about three-quarters of a pound, and in excellent condition.  Only two years ago he was put into the stream with five hundred others as a yearling.  The next two rising fish are too much for us, and we bungle them.  One sees the line, owing to our throwing too far above him, and the other is frightened out of his life by a bit of weed or grass which gets hitched on to the barb of the hook, and lands bang on to his nose.  These accidents will happen, so we do not swear, but pass on up stream, and soon a great brown tail appears for a second just above some rushes on the other side.  Kneeling down again, we manage, after a few casts—­luckily short of our fish—­to drop the fly a foot above him.  Down it sails, not “cocking” as nicely as could be wished, but in an exact line for his nose.  There is a slight dimple, and we have got him.  For two or three minutes we are at the mercy of our fish, for we dare not check him—­the gut is too fine.  But, lacking condition, he soon tires, and is landed.  He is over a pound and a half, and rather lanky; but kill him we must, for by the size of his head we can see that he is an old fish, and as bad as a pike for eating fry.  Two half-pounders are now landed in rapid succession, and returned to the water.  Then we hook a veritable monster; but, alas! he makes a terrific rush down stream, and the gut breaks in the weeds.  Of course he is put down as the biggest fish ever hooked in the water.  As a matter of fact, two pounds would probably “see him.”  Putting on another olive dun, we are soon playing a handsome bright fish of a pound, with thick shoulders and a small head.  And a lovely sight he is when we get him out of the water and knock him on the head.

We now come to a place where some big stones have been placed to make ripples and eddies, and the stream is more rapid.  Glad of the chance of a rest from the effort of fishing “dry,” which is tiring to the wrist and back, we get closer to the bank, and flog away for five minutes without success.  Suddenly we hear a voice behind, and, looking round, see our mysterious keeper, who is always turning up unexpectedly, without one’s being able to tell where he has sprung from.  “The fish be all alive above the washpool.  I never see such a sight in all my life!” he breathlessly exclaims.

“All right,” we reply; “we’ll be up there directly.  But let’s first of all try for the big one that lies just above that stone.”

“There’s one up! ...  There’s another up!  The river’s boiling,” says our loquacious companion.

“That’s the big fish,” we reply, vigorously flogging the air to dry the fly; for when there is a big fish about, one always gives him as neatly a “cocked” fly as is possible.

“Must have him!  Bang over him!” exclaims Tom Peregrine excitedly.