The one can be mended, the other pulled out. Now, jump the feeder.
There is no run to it, so--you have jumped in. Never mind: but keep
the point of your rod up. You are at least saved the lingering
torture of getting wet inch by inch; and as for cold water hurting
any one--Credat Judaeus.

Now make a circuit through the meadow forty yards away. Stoop down
when you are on the ridge of each table. A trout may be basking at
the lower end of the pool, who will see you, rush up, and tell all
his neighbours. Take off that absurd black chimney-pot, which you
are wearing, I suppose, for the same reason as Homer's heroes wore
their koruthous and phalerous, to make yourself look taller and more
terrible to your foes. Crawl up on three legs; and when you are in
position, kneel down. So.

Shorten your line all you can--you cannot fish with too short a line
up-stream; and throw, not into the oil-basin near you, but right up
into the darkest corner. Make your fly strike the brickwork and drop
in.--So? No rise? Then don't work or draw it, or your deceit is
discovered instantly. Lift it out, and repeat the throw.

What? You have hooked your fly in the hatches? Very good. Pull at
it till the casting-line breaks; put on a fresh one, and to work
again. There! you have him. Don't rise! fight him kneeling; hold
him hard, and give him no line, but shorten up anyhow. Tear and haul
him down to you before he can make to his home, while the keeper runs
round with the net . . . There, he is on shore. Two pounds, good
weight. Creep back more cautiously than ever, and try again. . . .
There. A second fish, over a pound weight. Now we will go and
recover the flies off the hatches; and you will agree that there is