What do you say to a
morning's fishing, Mr. Kerby, now that my bull's bad temper has
given us a holiday?"
I replied, with perfect truth, that I knew nothing about fishing.
But Mr. Garthwaite, who was as ardent an angler in his way as
Izaak Walton himself, was not to be appeased even by the best of
excuses. "It is never too late to learn," cried he. "I will make
a fisherman of you in no time, if you will only attend to my
directions." It was impossible for me to make any more apologies,
without the risk of appealing discourteous. So I thanked my host
for his friendly intentions, and, with some secret misgivings,
accepted the first fishing-rod that he put into my hands.
"We shall soon get there," said Mr. Garthwaite. "I am taking you
to the best mill-stream in the neighborhood." It was all one to
me whether we got there soon or late and whether the stream was
good or bad. However, I did my best to conceal my
unsportsman-like apathy; and tried to look quite happy and very
impatient to begin, as we drew near to the mill, and heard louder
and louder the gushing of many waters all round it.
Leading the way immediately to a place beneath the falling
stream, where there was a deep, eddying pool, Mr. Garthwaite
baited and threw in his line before I had fixed the joints of my
fishing-rod. This first difficulty overcome, I involuntarily
plunged into some excellent, but rather embarrassing, sport with
my line and hook.
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