I caught every one of my garments, from head to
foot; I angled for my own clothes with the dexterity and success
of Izaak Walton himself. I caught my hat, my jacket, my
waistcoat, my trousers, my fingers, and my thumbs--some devil
possessed my hook; some more than eel-like vitality twirled and
twisted in every inch of my line. By the time my host arrived to
assist me, I had attached myself to my fishing-rod, apparently
for life. All difficulties yielded, however, to his patience and
skill; my hook was baited for me, and thrown in; my rod was put
into my hand; my friend went back to his place; and we began at
last to angle in earnest.
We certainly caught a few fish (in _my_ case, I mean, of course,
that the fish caught themselves); but they were scanty in number
and light in weight. Whether it was the presence of the miller's
foreman--a gloomy personage, who stood staring disastrously upon
us from a little flower-garden on the opposite bank--that cast
adverse influence over our sport; or whether my want of faith and
earnestness as an angler acted retributively on my companion as
well as myself, I know not; but it is certain that he got almost
as little reward for his skill as I got for my patience. After
nearly two hours of intense expectation on my part, and intense
angling on his, Mr. Garthwaite jerked his line out of the water
in a rage, and bade me follow him to another place, declaring
that the stream must have been netted by poachers in the night,
who had taken all the large fish away with them, and had thrown
in the small ones to grow until their next visit.
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