If the Zeitgeist had any particular purpose when it tossed Tommy's atoms together, it must have been the production of a super-chauffeur. Amazingly erratic as he is in other things, his driving and handling of a car more nearly approaches perfection than any human effort I know. In other hands the hired wreckage that bore our fortunes would, I feel sure, have collapsed hopelessly long before we reached Gloucester. But Tommy, who, according to Mortimer, had pored lovingly over it with a spanner for several hours that morning, lifted it triumphantly, if complainingly, through all demands. At half-past six, dusty and incredibly vociferous, it clattered into Ross, and, practically speaking, our journey was accomplished. We had a cup of tea at the hotel there, and then in the cool of the evening clanked on cheerfully through the thickly wooded lanes that led to Sir Cuthbert Quinn's bungalow. The distance must have been about six miles, and it was while we were covering this that we got on to the question of how great a strain a salmon rod would stand. Tommy had been telling us some yarn about how a man he knew had jerked a fifteen-pound salmon clean out of the water, and I had ventured to cast a little mild doubt on the accuracy of the tale. Tommy had been quite indignant. "Why, of course it's possible," he had declared. "A salmon rod will stand almost any strain. The best swimmer in the world would be quite helpless if you hooked him by a belt round his middle." "Get out, Tommy," I said derisively; "he'd break you every time." "I bet you he wouldn't," said Tommy. "Look here, you get a good swimmer--any one you like, I don't care who he is--and I'll bet you five pounds I'll land him in under half an hour." "Done with you," I replied. "And what's more, I'll bet you another fiver he breaks your line inside of five minutes." Mortimer chuckled. "There's money in this," he observed. "We'd better advertise it in the _Sportsman_ and charge for seats. We might make quite a decent thing out of it." As he spoke we rattled round the corner of a deeply embedded lane, and, of a sudden, the Wye lay before us, gleaming like silver in its cool green valley. "That's the bungalow," said Tommy, pointing to a low, red-tiled building which one could just catch a glimpse of through the trees. "The boathouse must be just below us." We trundled delicately down the hill, for the road rather resembled the traditional highway to Zion, and pulled up outside a solid-looking building on the banks of the river. Tommy stopped the engine, and we all clambered out. The island lay exactly opposite, its neatly painted landing-stage facing us across the water. "Why, there's the boat!" exclaimed Mortimer suddenly. "Over there by the steps--look!" He pointed towards the island, and following his gesture, we all saw a small dinghy apparently tied up to one of the willows that fringed the bank. We stared at it in amazement.