The reasons for his discontent were not plain to the eye. There had been as good a fly water as anyone could want; there had been enough breeze to ruffle the surface, enough cloud to prevent glare; he had picked just the right flies from his book to suit the river, and the fish rose freely to them. He was carrying home as fine a dish of trout as any man could wish for, and had scrupulously thrown back everything under ten and a half inches. But even these things did not please him. He sucked hard at his cold pipe, and bit at fate as he tramped on inn-wards through the gathering dusk. He came to a cross-roads once, and abused the Welsh authorities for not putting up a sign-post for his guidance. The district was new to him; indeed he had come there for that reason: he wanted to be alone for these last days in England. He had fished his way up stream all day, and instead of following the water windings back again, was making his return journey by road. And here, it appeared, were three roads to choose from. But he was a man of resource. He depicted mentally a map of the country, found the newly risen North star, and got his bearings, and then trudged on again with confidence among towering mountains. It was night now, moonless, chill, and dark, and the mountains hung on either side like great walls of blackness. The road was white and faintly visible. But for all that he had presently to pull up sharply to avoid an obstruction. "Hullo," he said, "a motor car." And then aloud, "Anybody here?" A grumbling voice answered him from the ditch. "Yes, I'm the driver, and I'm here bathing my confounded wrist." "Had a smash? Can I help? What is it? Bone broken?" "No, only a bad sprain"--the man peered at Carter through the dusk and added "sir." "Your car seems to be standing up all right on her four wheels. How did you get pitched out?" "Oh, it wasn't that sort of an accident. She was misfiring badly, and then she stopped. When I tried to start her again, she back-fired on me and I thought my arm had gone. It's the jet in the carburetter that's choked, I believe, but I can't take the thing down with one hand." "I could," Carter thought, and remembered certain episodes with his own first motor boat in Africa. But he did not mention this aloud. "Owner gone for help?" he asked. "Yes, sir. But there's none round here. At least there's no such thing as a mechanic within twenty miles. A hay-motor and a tow to the nearest barn is the best one can expect." "Where's your tool kit?" "But do you understand motors, sir?" the man asked doubtfully. "I had to. Just unship a light, and hold it with your sound hand so that I can see what I'm about. That's the ticket. You're sure it's the carburetter? Tried your spark and all four plugs?"