In the bed of the river a man stumbled heavily along, trusting more
to his knowledge of the river than to his eyesight. He was fishing
dexterously with flies that were almost white--flies which seemed to
suit admirably the taste of those small brown trout which never have
the sense to leave alone the fare provided for their larger white
brethren.

Suddenly he hooked a larger fish, and, not daring to step back
beneath the overhanging oak, he proceeded to tire his fish out in
the deep water. In ten minutes he brought it to the landing-net,
and as he turned to open his creel his heart leapt in his breast. A
man was standing in the water not two feet behind him.

"Holloa," he gasped.

"I won't insult you by telling you not to be frightened," said the
voice of a gentleman. There was no mistaking it. The speaker stood
quite still, with the water bubbling round his legs. He was
hatless, and his hair was cut quite short.

A thought flashed across the fisherman's slow brain. Like the rest
of his craft, he was slower of mind than of hand.

"Yes," said the other, divining his thoughts, "I'm from Dartmoor.
You probably heard of my escape two days ago."

"Yes," replied the other, quietly, while he wound in his line. "I
heard of it."