And indeed Frank Meredyth now began to cast with more caution as he approached this smoother and deeper pool—sending his fly well over to the other side, letting it come gradually round with almost imperceptible jerks, and nursing it in the water before recovery. It was one of the best stretches of the river—they had been told that; and there was a fair chance after the rain. But all of a sudden, as he was carefully watching his fly being carried slowly round by the current, there was a terrific splash right in the midst of the stream: a large stone had been hurled from among the trees on the opposite bank: the pool was ruined. The fisherman, without a word, let his fly drift helplessly, and turned and looked at his companion. The same instant Fred Stanley had thrown away his cigarette, ran down the bank, and sprang into the water—careless of everything but getting across in time to capture their cowardly assailant. He had no waders on; but he did not heed that; all his endeavour was to force his way across the current before their unseen enemy could have escaped from among those birches. Meredyth could do nothing but look on. The point at which his companion had entered the stream was rather above the pool, and shallower; but none the less there was a certain body of water to contend with; and out in the middle young Stanley, despite his arduous efforts, made but slow progress. Then there was the catching at the bushes on the opposite bank—a hurried scrambling up—the next second he had disappeared among the birch trees. Frank Meredyth laid down his rod, and quietly took out a cigarette: fishing in this kind of a neighbourhood did not seem to attract him any more. It was some time before Fred Stanley came back: of course his quest had been unsuccessful—his hampered progress through the water had allowed his foe to get clear away. "You see you were wrong, Frank," he said, with affected indifference, when he had waded across the stream again. "Our friendly neighbour hasn’t gone south to keep the last of his terms, or for any other reason. A pretty trick, wasn’t it? I knew there was a dog-in-the-manger look about the fellow; well, I don’t care: Mamie can choose her own friends. As for you and me, we are off by the mail-car that leaves to-morrow morning." He was simply wild with rage, despite all his outward calmness. Frank Meredyth looked very grave indeed. "We can’t do that, Fred," said he. "It would be an affront to your sister——" "Well, then, and she allows my friend—her guest—to be insulted!" he exclaimed. "And all because no one dare speak out! But I’ve had enough of it. This last is too much—this shows you what the neighbourhood is like; and it is all to be winked at! As I say, I’ve had enough. I’m off. You can stay if you choose——"