which, strange to say, keeps out the rain, the heat, and the cold; and
flies were stuck in his cap of the same material. "But, look here,
there's no need for me to keep you; Pottinger will drive you to this
place, Carysford, where we stay the night--I've engaged rooms--and you
can have a warm bath and get into the dress-clothes after which you are
hankering. When I've caught a fish or two I'll come on after you. Don't
argue, now!"

"My dear Stafford, I haven't the least intention of doing so; I'm
simply dying for a bath, a change, and a huge fire; and when you arrive
you'll find me sitting over the latter humbly thanking God that I'm not
a sportsman."

Stafford nodded, with his eyes on the stream.

"I should give the nags some gruel, Pottinger, and put an extra coat on
them: it'll be cold to-night. Ta, ta, Howard! Tell 'em to get a nice
dinner; I'll be there in time for 'em to cook the fish; but don't wait
if I should be late--say half past seven."

"I promise you I won't," retorted Howard, fervently. "And I am one of
those men who never break a promise--unless it's inconvenient."

The phaeton drove on, Stafford went down to the stream, put up his rod,
chose a fly as carefully as if the fate of a kingdom depended on it,
and began to fish.

There is this great advantage in the art of fly-fishing: that while you
are engaged in it you can think of nothing else: it is as absorbing as
love or scarlet fever. Stafford worked his fly steadily and