We complimented Herr Hollweg on his establishment and then set out in pursuit of Herr Holbach. Our road lay through the characteristic scenery of the Bergische Land: little villages set deep in their orchards; rich pastures, wheat fields already turning golden under the summer sun. Woods of beech and oak and lime covered the low hills. In the early days of the Occupation, British troops had been quartered in this part of the perimeter, a point about which we were left in no doubt. The inhabitants from whom we stopped to ask the way countered my German by a fine flow of English. Small compliments about their prowess in this respect causes the Boche face to be wreathed in smiles. One young woman knew all about Herr Holbach. Yes, he had a large pond with “much fish”--a form of words of which I was growing a trifle tired. Down the hill we went again till a large dam came into view--that part of the story at least was true. Also there must be some earnest expectation or hope of fish, judging by the depressing number of rods which were dangling over the bank. We walked on to the damhead, and there encountered a hero in charge of two rods. He had lived in America and spoke English fluently. No, we had come to the wrong place for trout; this was carp-fishing--witness the rods. Were there any carp? Oh yes. Upon which he plunged down to the water’s edge and produced a net with two large fish in it. Herr Holbach, who lived in a house across the dam, might have some trout-fishing, but he was doubtful about this. Our latest friend had served in the Navy, and we fell into general conversation with him. As is usual when talking to German working-men, I was struck by a sense of weariness and horror in all he said about the war. Their rulers had been mad, that was his view; the war had brought nothing but utter misery, there ought never to be another one; they were happy and prosperous before, now they were ruined. Our talk on the damhead was yet another proof that if the League of Nations ever becomes a going concern, it will draw its strength, not from the upper classes, many of whom are rooted in the ways of the old diplomacy, but from the humble folk like our fisherman whose souls have been branded in the furnace of war. But the afternoon was going on, and though we had had much pleasant conversation, the fishing still eluded us. Herr Holbach’s house, or rather farm, stood on the bank of another lake, and there, apparently, in addition to agriculture he turned an honest penny by letting out boats or arranging facilities for swimming.