PART Ⅱ-4

  Forthesevenyears,fromwhenIwaseighttowhenIwasfifteen,whatIchieflyrememberisfishing.

  Don’tthinkthatIdidnothingelse.It’sonlythatwhenyoulookbackoveralongperiodoftime,certainthioswelluptilltheyovershadoweverythingelse.IleftMotherHowlett’saotheGrammarSchool,withaleathersatchelandablackcapwithyellowstripes,andgotmyfirstbicydalongtimeafterwardsmyfirstlongtrousers.Myfirstbikewasafixed-wheel—free-wheelbikeswereveryexpehen.Whenyouwentdownhillyouputyourfeetuponthefrosahepedalsgowhizzinground.Thatwasohecharacteristicsightsoftheearlyeen-hundreds—aboysailingdownhillwithhisheadbadhisfeetupintheair.IwenttotheGrammarSchoolinfearandtrembling,becauseofthefrightfultalesJoehadtoldmeaboutoldWhiskers(hisnamewasWicksey)theheadmaster,whowascertainlyadreadful-lookinglittleman,withafacejustlikeawolf,andattheendofthebigschoolroomhehadaglasscasewithesinit,whichhe’dsometimestakeoutandswishthroughtheairinaterrifyingmanner.ButtomysurpriseIdidratherwellatschool.IthadneveroccurredtomethatImightbeclevererthanJoe,oyearsolderthanmeandhadbulliedmeeversincehecouldwalk.ActuallyJoewasanutterdutheeaboutonceaweek,andstayedsomewherehebottomoftheschooltillhewassixteen.MysedtermItookaprizeinarithmetidanotherinsomequeerstuffthatwasmostlyedwithpressedflowersabythenameofSdbythetimeIwasfourteenWhiskerswastalkingaboutscholarshipsandReadingUy.Father,whohadambitionsforJoeahosedays,wasveryanxiousthatIshouldgoto‘college’.TherewasanideafloatingroundthatIwastobeaschoolteacheraobeanaueer.

  ButIhaven’tmanymemoriesectedwithschool.WhenI’vemixedwithchapsfromtheupperclasses,asIdidduringthewar,I’vebeenstruckbythefactthattheyneverreallygetoverthatfrightfuldrillihroughatpublicschools.Eitheritflatteintohalf-witsortheyspeoftheirliveskigagainstit.Itwasn’tsowithboysofourclass,thesonsofshopkeepersandfarmers.YouwenttotheGrammarSchoolandyoustayedtheretillyouweresixteen,justtoshowthatyouweren’taprole,butschoolwaschieflyaplacethatyouwaogetawayfrom.You’dimentofloyalty,nogoofyfeelingabouttheoldgreystones(andtheyWEREhtenough,theschoolhadbeenfoundedbyCardinalWolsey),andtherewasnoOldBoy’stieandnotevenaschoolsong.Youhadyourhalf-holidaystoyourself,becausegamesweren’tpulsoryandasoftenasnotyoucutthem.Weplayedfootballinbraces,andthoughitwassideredpropertoplaycricketi,youworeyourordinaryshirtandtrousers.TheonlygameIreallycaredaboutwasthestumpcricketweusedtoplayinthegravelyardduringthebreak,withabatmadeoutofabitofpagcaseandapoball.

  ButIrememberthesmellofthebigschoolroom,asmellofinkanddustandboots,aoheyardthathadbeenamountingblodwasusedforsharpeningkniveson,alebaker’sshopoppositewheretheysoldakindofChelseabun,twicethesizeoftheChelseabunsyougetnowadays,whichwerecalledLardyBustersandcostahalfpenny.Ididallthethingsyoudoatschool.Icarvedmynameonadeskandgottheeforit—youwerealwaysedforitifyouwerecaught,butitwastheetiquettethatyouhadtocarveyourname.AndIgotinkyfingersandbitmynailsandmadedartsoutofpenholdersandplayedkersandpassedrounddirtystoriesandlearomasturbateandcheekedoldBlowers,theEnglishmaster,andbulliedthelifeoutoflittleWillySimeon,theuaker’sson,whowashalf-wittedandbelievedeverythingyoutoldhim.Ourfavouritetrickwastosendhimtoshopstobuythingsthatdid.Alltheoldgags—theha’porthofpennystamps,therubberhammer,theleft-handedscrewdriver,thepotofstripedpaint—poorWillyfellforallofthem.Wehadgrandsportoernoon,puttinghiminatubandtellinghimtolifthimselfupbythehandles.Heendedupinanasylum,poorWilly.Butitwasintheholidaysthatonereallylived.

  Thereweregoodthingstodointhosedays.Inwinterweusedtoborroleofferrets—MotherwouldJoeandmekeepthemathome,‘nastysmellythings’shecalledthem—andgoroundthefarmsandaskleavetodoabitofratting.Sometimestheyletus,sometimestheytoldustohookitandsaidweweremoretroublethas.Laterinwinterwe’dfollowthethreshingmaeandhelpkilltheratswhehreshedthestacks.Oer,1908itmusthavebeehamesfloodedandthenfrozeandtherewasskatingforweeksonend,andHarryBarnesbrokehiscollar-boheiearlyspriaftersquirrelswithsquailers,andlaterobirding.Wehadatheorythatbirds’ttandit’sallrightifyouleaveoneegg,butwewerecruellittlebeastsandsometimeswe’djustknockthedownandtrampleontheeggsorchicks.Therewasanamewehadwheoadswerespawning.Weusedtocatchtoads,ramthenozzleofabicyclepumpuptheirbacksides,andblowthemuptilltheyburst.That’swhatboysarelike,Idon’tknowwhy.InsummerweusedtobikeovertheBurfordWeirandbathe.WallyLovegrove,Sid’syoungcousin,wasdrownedin1906.Hegottaheweedsatthebottom,ahedrag-hohthisbodytothesurfacehisfacewasjetblack.

  ButfishingwastherealthimanyatimetooldBrewer’spool,andtooktinycarpandtenchoutofit,andonceawhoppingeel,andtherewereothercow-pondsthathadfishinthemandwerewithinwalkingdistanSaturdayafternoons.ButafterwegotbicycleswestartedfishingihamesbelowBurfordWeir.Itseemedmrown-upthanfishingincow-ponds.Therewerenofarmerschasingyouaway,andtherearethumpingfishihames—though,sofarasIknow,nobody’severbeenknowntocate.

  It’squeer,thefeelingIhadforfishing—andstillhave,really.I’tcallmyselfafisherman.I’veneverinmylifecaughtafishtwofeetlong,andit’sthirtyyearsnowsinceI’vehadarodinmyhands.AwhenIlookbackthewholeofmyboyhoodfromeighttofifteeohaverevolvedroundthedaysentfishing.Everydetailhasstuckclearinmymemory.Irememberindividualdaysandindividualfish,thereisn’tacow-pondorabackwaterthatI’tseeapictureofifIshutmyeyesandthink.Icouldwriteabookoeiqueoffishing.erekidswedidn’thavemuthewayoftackle,itcosttoomudmostofourthreepenceaweek(whichwastheusualpocket-mohosedays)wentosandLardyBusters.Verysmallkidsgenerallyfishwithabentpin,whichistooblunttobemuchuse,butyoumakeaprettygoodhook(thoughofcourseit’sgotnobarb)bybendinganeedleinadleflameairofpliers.Thefarmladsknewhowtoplaithorsehairsothatitwasalmostasgoodasgut,andyoutakeasmallfishonasinglehorsehair.Laterwegottohavingtwo-shillingfishing-rodsandevenreelsod,whathoursI’vespentgazingintoWallace’swindow!Eventhe.410gunsandsaloonpistolsdidn’tthrillmesomuchasthefishingtackle.Andtheage’scataloguethatIpickedupsomewhere,onarubbishdumpIthink,andstudiedasthoughithadbeentheBible!EvennowIcouldgiveyouallthedetailsaboutgut-substituteandgimpandLimerickhooksandpriestsanddisgersandNottinghamreelsandGodknowshowmanyotherteicalities.

  Thentherewerethekindsofbaitweusedtouse.Inourshoptherewereallentyofmealworms,whichweregoodbutnood.Gentleswerebetter.YouhadtobegthemoffoldGravitt,thebutcher,andthegaodrawlotsordoenamena-mina-motodecidewhoshouldgoandask,becauseGravittwasn’tusuallytoopleasantaboutit.Hewasabig,rough-facedolddevilwithavoicelikeamastiff,andwhenhebarked,ashegenerallydidwhenspeakingtoboys,alltheknivesandsteelsonhisblueapronwouldgiveajingle.You’dgointytreacle-tininyourhand,hangroundtillanyershaddisappearedandthensayveryhumbly:

  ‘Please,MrGravitt,y’gotalestoday?’

  Generallyhe’droarout:‘What!Gentles!Gentlesinmyshop!Ain’tseensuchathinginyears.ThinkIgotblow-fliesinmyshop?’

  Hehad,ofcourse.Theywereeverywhere.Heusedtodealwiththemwithastripofleatherontheendofastick,withwhichhecouldreachouttoenormousdistandsmackaflyintopaste.Sometimesyouhadtogoawaywithoutales,butasarulehe’dshoutafteryoujustasyoing:

  ‘‘Ere!Goroundthebackyardan’‘avealook.P’rapsyoumightfiwoifyoulookedcareful.’

  Youusedtofindtheminlittleclusterseverywhere.Gravitt’sbackyardsmeltlikeabattlefield.Butchersdidn’thaverefrigeratorsinthosedays.Gentleslivelongerifyoukeeptheminsawdust.

  grubsaregood,thoughit’shardtomakethemstithehook,unlessyoubakethemfirst.Whensomeonefoundas’we’dgooutatnightandpourturpentinedoluguptheholewithmud.daytheswouldallbedeadandyoucoulddigouttheandtakethegrubs.Onethiwrong,theturpsmissedtheholeorsomething,aooktheplugoutthes,whichhadbeenshutupallnight,cameoutalltogetherwithazoom.Weweren’tverybadlystung,butititytherewasandingbywatch.Grasshoppersareaboutthebestbaitthereis,especiallyforchub.Youstickthemonthehookwithoutanyshotandjustflickthemtoandfroonthesurface—‘dapping’,theycallit.Butyouevergetmorethantworasshoppersatatime.Greenbottleflies,whicharealsodamneddifficulttocatch,arethebestbaitfordace,especiallyoncleardays.Youwanttoputthemonthehookalive,sothattheywriggle.Achubwilleventakea,butit’saticklishjobtoputaliveonthehook.

  Godknowshowmanyotherbaitstherewere.Breadpasteyoumakebysqueezingwaterthroughwhitebreadinarag.Thentherearecheesepasteandhoneypasteandpastewithaniseedinit.Boiledwheatisn’tbadforroach.Redwormsaregoeon.Youfindtheminveryoldmanureheaps.Andyoualsofindanotherkindofwormcalledabrandling,whichisstripedandsmellslikeanearwig,andwhichisverygoodbaitforperch.Ordihwormsaregoodforperch.Youhavetoputtheminmosstokeepthemfreshandlively.Ifyoutrytokeepthemihtheydie.Thosebrownfliesyoufindoncowdutygoodforroach.Youtakeachubonacherry,sotheysay,andI’veseenaroachtakenwithacurrantoutofabun.

  Inthosedays,fromthesixteenthofJune(whenthecoarse-fishingseasonstarts)tillmidwinterIwasn’toftenwithoutatinofwormsentlesinmypocket.IhadsomefightswithMotheraboutit,butintheendshegavein,fishingcameoffthelistofforbiddenthingsandFatherevewo-shillingfishing-rodforChristmasin1903.Joewasbarelyfifteenwheartedgoingaftergirls,andfromthenonheseldomcameoutfishing,whichhesaidwasakid’sgame.ButtherewereabouthalfadozenotherswhowereasmadonfishingasIwas.Christ,thosefishingdays!ThehotstickyafternoonsintheschoolroomwhenI’vesprawledaydesk,witholdBlowers’svoicegratingawayaboutpredicatesandsubjunctivesaiveclauses,andallthat’sinmymindisthebackwaternearBurfordWeirandthegreenpooluhewillowswiththedaceglidingtoandfro.Aheterrificrushonbicyclesaftertea,toChamfordHillanddowntotherivertogetinanhour’sfishingbeforedark.Thestillsummerevening,thefaintsplashoftheweir,theringsoerwherethefisharerising,themidgeseatingyoualive,theshoalsofdaceswarmingroundyourhookanding.Andthekindofpassionwithwhichyou’dwatchtheblackbacksofthefishswarminground,hopingandpraying(yes,literallypraying)thatohemwouldgehismindandgrabyourbaitbefottoodark.Awasalways‘Let’shavefiveminutesmore’,andthen‘Justfiveminutesmore’,untilintheendyouhadtowalkyourbikeintothetownbecauseTowler,thecopper,rowlingroundandyoucouldbe‘hadup’forridingwithoutalight.Aimesinthesummerholidaysentouttomakeadayofitwithboiledeggsandbreadandbutterandabottleoflemonade,andfishedandbathedandthenfishedagainanddidoccasionallycatething.Atnightyou’dehomewithfilthyhandssohungrythatyou’deatenwhatwasleftofyourbreadpaste,withthreeorfoursmellydaceedupinyourhandkerchief.MotheralwaysrefusedtocookthefishIbroughthome.Shewouldneverallowthatriverfishwereedible,excepttroutandsalmon.‘Nastymuddythings’,shecalledthem.ThefishIrememberbestofallaretheonesIdidn’tcatch.EspeciallythemonstrousfishyoualwaysusedtoseewhenyouwentforawalkaloowpathonSundayafternoonsandhadn’tarodwithyou.TherewasnofishingonSundays,evehamesservancyBoarddidn’tallowit.OnSundaysyouhadtogoforwhatwascalleda‘nicewalk’inyourthickblacksuitaoncollarthatsawedyourheadoff.ItwasonaSundaythatIsaikeayardlongasleepinshallowwaterbythebankandnearlygothimwithastone.Andsometimesinthegreenpoolsontheedgeofthereedsyou’dseeahugeThamestroutgosailingpast.Thetroutgrowtovastsizesihames,butthey’repracticallynevercaught.TheysaythatoherealThamesfishermen,theoldbottle-nosedblokesthatyouseemuffledupinovercoatsoncamp-stoolswithtwenty-footroach-polesatallseasonsoftheyear,willwillinglygiveupayearofhislifetocatgaThamestrout.Idon’tblamethem,Iseetheirpoiirely,andstillbetterIsawitthen.

  Ofcourseotherthingswerehappening.Igrewthreeinchesinayear,gotmylongtrousers,wonsomeprizesatschool,wenttofirmationclasses,tolddirtystories,tooktoreading,andhadcrazesforwhitemice,fretwork,andpostagestamps.Butit’salwaysfishingthatIremember.Summerdays,awater-meadowsandthebluehillsiandthewillowsupthebackwaterandthepoolsunderhlikeakindofdeepgreenglass.Summerevenings,thefishbreakier,thenightjarshawkingroundyourhead,thesmellofnightstodlatakia.Don’tmistakewhatI’mtalkingabout.It’snotthatI’mtryingtoputacrossanyofthatpoetryofchildhoodstuff.Iknowthat’sallbaloney.OldPorteous(afriendofmine,aretiredsaster,I’lltellyouabouthimlater)isgreatoryofchildhood.Sometimeshereadsmestuffaboutitoutofbooks.Wordsworth.LucyGray.Therewasatimewhenmeadow,grove,andallthat.Needlesstosayhe’sgotnokidsofhisowhisthatkidsaren’tinanyoetic,they’remerelysavagelittleanimals,exceptthatnoanimalisaquarterasselfish.Aboyisn’tiedinmeadows,groves,andsoforth.Heneverlooksatalandscape,doesn’tgiveadamnforflowers,anduheyaffecthiminsomeway,suchasbeinggoodtoeat,hedoesn’tknowoneplantfromanother.Killingthings—that’saboutasopoetryasaboygets.Aallthewhilethere’sthatpeculiariy,thepoweroflongingforthingsasyou’tlongwhenyrownup,andthefeelingthattimestretchesoutandoutinfrontofyouandthatwhateveryou’redoingyoucouldgoonforever.

  Iwasratheranuglylittleboy,withbutter-colouredhairwhichwasalwayscroppedshortexceptforaquiffinfront.Idon’tidealizemychildhood,andunlikemanypeopleI’venowishtobeyoungagain.MostofthethingsIusedtocareforwouldleavemesomethingmorethancold.Idon’tcareifIneverseeacricketballagain,andIwouldn’tgiveyouthreepenceforahundredweightofsweets.ButI’vestillgot,I’vealwayshad,thatpeculiarfeelingforfishing.You’llthinkitdamnedsilly,nodoubt,butI’veactuallyhalfawishtogofishingevennow,whenI’mfatandforty-fiveandgottwokidsandahouseinthesuburbs.Why?BecauseinamannerofspeakingIAMsealaboutmychildhood—notmyownparticularchildhood,butthecivilizationwhichIgrewupinandwhiow,Isuppose,justaboutatitslastkidfishingissomehowtypicalofthatcivilization.Assoonasyouthinkoffishingyouthinkofthingsthatdon’tbelongtothemodernworld.Theveryideaofsittingalldayunderawillowtreebesideaquietpool—andbeingabletofindaquietpooltositbeside—belongstothetimebeforethewar,beforetheradio,beforeaeroplanes,beforeHitler.There’sakindofpeacefulnesseveninthenamesofEnglishcoarsefish.Roach,rudd,dace,bleak,barbel,bream,gudgeon,pike,chub,carp,tench.They’resolidkindofhepeoplewhomadethemuphadn’theardofmae-guns,theydidn’tliveinterrorofthesackorspeimeeatingaspirins,goingtothepictures,andwhowtokeepoutofthetrationcamp.

  Doesanyonegofishingnowadays,Iwonder?AnywherewithinahundredmilesofLondontherearenofishlefttocatch.Afewdismalfishing-clubsplantthemselvesinrowsalongthebanksofals,andmilliotrout-fishinginprivatewatersroundScotchhotels,asortofsnobbishgameofcatghand-rearedfishwithartificialflies.Butwhofishesinmill-streamsormoatsorcow-pondsanylonger?WherearetheEnglishcoarsefishnow?WhenIwasakideverypondandstreamhadfishinit.Nowallthepondsaredrained,ahestreamsaren’tpoisohchemicalsfromfactoriesthey’refullofrustytinsandmotor-biketyres.

  Mybestfishing-memoryisaboutsomefishthatInevercaught.That’susualenough,Isuppose.

  WhenIwasaboutfourteenFatherdidagoodturnofsomekindtooldHodges,thecaretakeratBinfieldHouse.Ifetwhatitwas—gavehimsomemediethatcuredhisfowlsoftheworms,orsomething.Hodgeswasacrabbyolddevil,buthedidn’tfetagoodturn.Onedayalittlewhileafterwardswhenhe’dbeendowntotheshoptobuychi-hemetmeoutsidethedoorandstoppedmeinhissurlyway.Hehadafacelikesomethingcarvedoutofabitofroot,andonlytwoteeth,whichweredarkbrownandverylong.

  ‘Hey,young‘un!Fisherman,ain’tyou?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thoughtyouwas.Youlisten,then.Ifsobeyouwao,youcouldbringyourlineandhaveatryinthattheypoolupahindtheHall.There’splentybreamandjathere.Butdon’tyoutelloldyou.Anddon’tyougofortanyofthemotheryoungwhelps,orI’llbeattheskinofftheirbacks.’

  Havingsaidthishehobbledoffwithhissackofoverhisshoulder,asthoughfeelingthathe’dsaidtoomuchalready.TheSaturdayafternoonIbikeduptoBinfieldHousewithmypocketsfullofwormsales,andlookedforoldHodgesatthelodge.AtthattimeBinfieldHousehadalreadybeeyfortenortwentyyears.MrFarrel,theowner,couldn’taffordtoliveinitahercouldn’torwould.HelivedinLondonoofhisfarmsahehouseandgroundsgotothedevil.Allthefencesweregreenandrotting,theparkwasamassofles,theplantationswerelikeajungle,ahegardenshadgonebaeadow,withonlyafewoldgnarledrose-bushestoshowyouwherethebedshadbeen.Butitwasaverybeautifulhouse,especiallyfromadistawasagreatwhiteplacewithnadesandlong-shapedwindows,whichhadbeenbuilt,Isuppose,aboutQueeimebysomeonewho’dtravelledinItaly.IfIwenttherenowI’dprobablygetacertainkickoutofwanderingroundthegeneraldesolationandthinkingaboutthelifethatusedtogoonthere,andthepeoplewhobuiltsuchplacesbecausetheyimagihatthegooddayswouldlastforever.AsaboyIdidn’tgiveeitherthehouseroundsasedlook.IdugoutoldHodges,who’djustfinishedhisdinnerandwasabitsurly,andgothimtoshowmethewaydowntothepool.Itwasseveralhundredyardsbehindthehouseandpletelyhiddeninthebeechwoods,butitwasagood-sizedpool,almostalake,aboutahundredandfiftyyardsacross.Itwasastonishing,ahatageitastonishedme,thatthere,adozenmilesfromReadingandnotfiftyfromLondon,youcouldhavesuchsolitude.Youfeltasmuchaloneasifyou’dbeenonthebanksoftheAmazon.Thepoolwasringedpletelyroundbytheenormousbeechtrees,whioneplacecamedowntotheedgeandwerereflectedier.Ohersidethereatchofgrasswheretherewasahollowwithbedsofwildpeppermint,andupatoneendofthepoolanoldwoodenboathousewasrottingamongthebulrushes.

  Thepoolwasswarmingwithbream,smallones,aboutfourtosixincheslong.Everynowandagainyou’dseeohemturnhalfleamreddybrowhewater.Therewerepiketheretoo,andtheymusthavebeenbigones.Youneversawthem,butsometimesowasbaskingamongtheweedswouldturnoverandpluhasplashthatwaslikeabrickbeingbuothewater.Itwasryingtocatchthem,thoughofcourseIalwaystriedeverytimeIwentthere.ItriedthemwithdadminnowsI’dcaughtihamesaaliveinajam-jar,ahaspinnermadeoutofabitoftin.Buttheyweregedwithfishandwouldn’tbite,andinanycasethey’dhavebrokenanytackleIpossessed.Inevercamebathepoolwithoutatleastadozensmallbream.SometimesinthesummerholidaysIwentthereforawholeday,withmyfishing-rodandacopyofChumsortheUnionJaething,andahunkofbreadandcheesewhichMotherhadedupforme.AndI’vefishedforhoursandthenlaininthegrasshollowaheUnionJadthenthesmellofmybreadpasteandtheplopofafishjumpingsomewherewouldsendmewildagain,andI’dgobacktothewaterandhaveano,andsoonallthroughasummer’sday.Aofallwastobealoerlyalohoughtheroadwasn’taquarterofamileaway.Iwasjustoldenoughtoknowthatit’sgoodtobealoneoccasionally.Withthetreesallroundyouitwasasthoughthepoolbelooyou,andnothiirredexceptthefishringierandthepigeonspassingoverhead.A,iwoyearsorsothatIwentfishingthere,howmanytimesdidIreallygo,Iwonder?Notmorethanadozen.Itwasathree-milebikeridefromhomeandtookupawholeafternoo.Andsometimesotherthingsturnedup,andsometimeswhenI’dmeanttogoitrained.Youknowthewaythingshappen.

  Oernoonthefishweren’tbitingaoexploreattheendofthepoolfarthestfromBinfieldHouse.Therewasabitofanoverflowofwaterandthegroundwasboggy,andyouhadtofightyourwaythroughasortofjungleofblackberrybushesandrottenboughsthathadfallenoffthetrees.Istruggledthroughitforaboutfiftyyards,andthensuddenlytherewasaclearingandIcametoanotherpoolwhichIhadneverked.Itwasasmallpoolnotmorethayyardswide,andratherdarkbecauseoftheboughsthatit.Butitwasveryclearwaterandimmenselydeep.Icouldseetenorfifteedownintoit.Ihungaboutforabit,enjoyingthedampnessaenboggysmell,thewayaboydoes.AndthenIsawsomethingthatalmostmademejumpoutofmyskin.

  Itwasanenormousfish.Idon’texaggeratewhenIsayitwasenormous.Itwasalmostthelengthofmyarm.Itglidedacrossthepool,deepuer,andthenbecameashadowanddisappearedintothedarkerwateroherside.Ifeltasifaswordhadgohroughme.ItwasfarthebiggestfishI’deverseen,deadoralive.Istoodtherewithoutbreathing,andinamomentanethickshapeglidedthroughthewater,andthenanotherawomoreclosetogether.Thepoolwasfullofthem.Theywerecarp,Isuppose.Justpossiblytheywerebreamortench,butmoreprobablycarp.Breamortenchwouldn’tgrowsohuge.Iknewwhathadhappesometimethispoolhadbeenectedwiththeother,ahestreamhaddriedupandthewoodshadclosedroundthesmallpoolandithadjustbeenfotten.It’sathingthathappensoccasionally.Apoolgetsfottensomehow,nobodyfishesinitforyearsanddecadesandthefishgrowtomonstroussizes.ThebrutesthatIwaswatgmightbeahundredyearsold.Andnotasoulintheworldknewaboutthemexceptme.Verylikelyitwastwentyyearssinyonehadsomuchaslookedatthepool,andprobablyevenoldHodgesandMrFarrel’sbailiffhadfotteence.

  Well,youimagiIfelt.AfterabitIcouldn’tevehetantalizationofwatg.Ihurriedbacktotheotherpoolandgotmyfishingthingstogether.ItwasryingforthosecolossalbruteswiththetackleIhad.They’dsnapitasifithadbeenahair.AndIcouldn’tgoonfishinganylongerforthetihesightofthebigcarphadgivenmeafeelinginmystomachalmostasifIwasgoingtobesick.Igotontomybikeandwhizzeddownthehillandhome.Itwasawonderfulsecretforaboytohave.Therewasthedarkpoolhiddenawayinthewoodsandthemonstrousfishsailingroundit—fishthathadneverbeenfishedforandwouldgrabthefirstbaityouofferedthem.Itwasonlyaquestioingholdofalirongenoughtoholdthem.AlreadyI’dmadeallthearras.I’dbuythetacklethatwouldholdthemifIhadtostealthemoofthetill.Somehow,Godknewhow,I’dgetholdofhalfaandbuyalengthofsilksalmonlineandsomethickgutimpandNumber5hooks,andebackwithcheesealesandpasteandmealwormsandbrandlingsandgrasshoppersandeverymortalbaitacarpmightlookat.TheverySaturdayafternoonI’debadtryforthem.

  ButasithappenedIneverwentbaeneverdoesgobaeverstolethemoofthetillhtthebitofsalmonlineorhadatryforthosecarp.Almostimmediatelyafterwardssomethingturopreveifithadhatitwouldhavebeehingelse.It’sthewaythingshappen.

  Iknow,ofcourse,thatyouthinkI’mexaggeratingaboutthesizeofthosefish.Youthink,probably,thattheywerejustmedium-sizedfish(afootlong,say)andthatthey’veswollengraduallyinmymemory.Butitisn’tso.Peopletellliesaboutthefishthey’vecaughtandstillmoreaboutthefishthatarehookedaaway,butInevercaughtanyoftheseoreveocatchthem,andI’venomotiveforlying.Itellyoutheywereenormous.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读

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