"Why, there ’tis. I met Master Walton once, a-fishen in the Itchen above Winchester—a quaint man, with a good breast for a song, for all he was ripe for the grave. Myself I was but twenty or so, he a man of fourscore and upward; ay, a fine hale old man, wi’ a store o’ memories. We fell into talk; a’ told me how a’ once rid to Lunnon wi’ a rich jewel o’ King Charles’s in his doublet; ay, he was a royal man, wi’ a jolly red face, but no harm in un, not a whit; and learned, too—but no angler. No, faith, no angler, for a’ talked o’ fishen down stream, a’ did, when ne’er a child but knows fish lie wi’ their heads up stream. Ye cotch fish as ’ee do Frenchmen, from behind! Now, hook’s ready. Mum, Master Harry, while I cast." He dropped his fly deftly into the still pool, watching it with keen eyes and pursed lips. Meanwhile Harry had chosen an orle fly, and made his cast a little lower down. The anglers were silent for some minutes. "What’s that?" asked Harry suddenly, looking up as a distant sound of wood-chopping reached his ears. "Mum, boy!" whispered Sherebiah in reply. "There, I beg pardon, Master Harry, but you’ve scared away a samlet just as he opened his jaws. That? ’Tis Simon forester, belike, fellen Sir Godfrey’s timber. Now, a still tongue——" He broke off, rose, and followed his line stealthily for a yard or two. The surface of the water was disturbed, and Harry caught a glimpse of a gleaming side. There was a splash; the rod bent; then Sherebiah hastened his steps as the fish went away with a rush. "He’s a-showen fight," whispered Sherry. "Whoa! he’s sounded, Master Harry; a big un. Pray the tackle may hold! Ah! he’s clear, and off again! Whoa! whoa! Nay, my pretty, ’ee may fight, but I’ll land ’ee." For ten minutes the contest continued; then the angler got in his line slowly, and beckoned to Harry to assist him. The fish was carefully drawn in; Harry stooped with his net at the critical moment, and with a sudden heave landed a fine four-pounder, which he slipped into Sherebiah’s creel. "That’s the way on’t, Master Harry," said Sherebiah contentedly. "Had no luck yourself, eh? What be ’ee a-fishen wi’?" "An orle." "Ah, ’tis an hour or two too early in the day for that, mebbe. Still, these waters of Sir Godfrey bean’t often fished since young Master Godfrey went to Cambridge college, and the trout mayn’t be over squeamish. Stick to ’t!" An hour passed, and both anglers were well satisfied. Sherebiah’s fly proved irresistible, either from its cunning make or the wary skill with which he whipped the stream. Four fat trout had joined the first in his basket; two had rewarded Harry’s persistence; then he laid down his rod and watched with admiration the delicate casts of his companion. Sherebiah landed his sixth. The haze having now disappeared, and the sun growing hot, he wound up his line and said: "Rain afore seven, fine afore ’leven. I be mortal peckish, Master Harry; what may ’ee have in your basket, now?"