Author.—Why, he’s asleep, Grant; give him a good shake, will you.

 

Clifford (half-awaking).—Oh! oh! oh! what are you at? Will you throw me into the water, you scoundrels? Hah! what are you at? Aw—a—a! what a magnificent salmon¹ I had caught when you snapt my line. Eh!—hah—aw—a—aw. I believe I have been dozing².

 

Grant.—Nay³, not dozing only, but snoring; and, finally fishing in your sleep.

 

Clifford.—Then am I a fool—aw—a—a—to stay here awake doing nothing, when I might go to bed and there so happily continue the sport which you so cruelly interrupted,—aw—a—aw, so good night to you,—I’m off.

 

Taking up his candle, Clifford quickly disappeared, and following his example, we broke up for the night; and having agreed to devote the next day to our friend’s favourite sport, we invited our new acquaintance, the schoolmaster, to dine with us again.

 

Next day Grant and I spent five or six hours in thrashing the river without being gratified even with a single rise, whilst Clifford killed no less than three large salmon and one grilse. We expected that he would have crowed mightily⁴ over us, and we accordingly exhibited great humbleness⁵ of aspect in his presence. But he was magnanimous beyond our hopes.

 

Clifford.—Don’t be downcast, my dear friends, your fate had been mine and mine yours, had we only exchanged our fly-boxes in the morning. Your flies have been made by some Cockney for fishing in the New River. These Limerick hooks are the things; they never fail. You shall try them next time, and I’ll warrant your success.

 

Clifford picked out the best fish for our dinner, and after [228]a liberal provision of those ingredients which are supposed to contribute to the sociality of an evening,

 

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