CHAPTER
XVII.
WASHING DAY. - FISH AND FISHERS. - ON
THE ART OF ANGLING. - A
CONSCIENTIOUS FLY-FISHER. - A FISHY
STORY.
WE stayed two days at Streatley, and got
our clothes washed. We had
tried washing them ourselves, in the
river, under George's
superintendence, and it had been a
failure. Indeed, it had been more
than a failure, because we were worse off
after we had washed our clothes
than we were before. Before we had washed
them, they had been very, very
dirty, it is true; but they were just
wearable. AFTER we had washed them
- well, the river between Reading and
Henley was much cleaner, after we
had washed our clothes in it, than it was
before. All the dirt contained
in the river between Reading and Henley,
we collected, during that wash,
and worked it into our clothes.
The washerwoman at Streatley said she
felt she owed it to herself to
charge us just three times the usual
prices for that wash. She said it
had not been like washing, it had been
more in the nature of excavating.
We paid the bill without a murmur.
The neighbourhood of Streatley and Goring
is a great fishing centre.
There is some excellent fishing to be had
here. The river abounds in
pike, roach, dace, gudgeon, and eels,
just here; and you can sit and fish
for them all day.
Some people do. They never catch them. I
never knew anybody catch
anything, up the Thames, except minnows
and dead cats, but that has
nothing to do, of course, with fishing!
The local fisherman's guide
doesn't say a word about catching
anything. All it says is the place is
"a good station for fishing;"
and, from what I have seen of the district,
I am quite prepared to bear out this
statement.
There is no spot in the world where you
can get more fishing, or where
you can fish for a longer period. Some
fishermen come here and fish for
a day, and others stop and fish for a
month. You can hang on and fish
for a year, if you want to: it will be
all the same.
The ANGLER'S GUIDE TO THE THAMES says
that "jack and perch are also to be
had about here," but there the
ANGLER'S GUIDE is wrong. Jack and perch
may BE about there. Indeed, I know for a
fact that they are. You can
SEE them there in shoals, when you are
out for a walk along the banks:
they come and stand half out of the water
with their mouths open for
biscuits. And, if you go for a bathe,
they crowd round, and get in your
way, and irritate you. But they are not
to be "had" by a bit of worm on
the end of a hook, nor anything like it -
not they!
I am not a good fisherman myself. I
devoted a considerable amount of
attention to the subject at one time, and
was getting on, as I thought,
fairly well; but the old hands told me
that I should never be any real
good at it, and advised me to give it up.
They said that I was an
extremely neat thrower, and that I seemed
to have plenty of gumption for
the thing, and quite enough
constitutional laziness. But they were sure
I should never make anything of a
fisherman. I had not got sufficient
imagination.
They said that as a poet, or a shilling
shocker, or a reporter, or
anything of that kind, I might be
satisfactory, but that, to gain any
position as a Thames angler, would
require more play of fancy, more power
of invention than I appeared to possess.
Some people are under the impression that
all that is required to make a
good fisherman is the ability to tell
lies easily and without blushing;
but this is a mistake. Mere bald
fabrication is useless; the veriest
tyro can manage that. It is in the
circumstantial detail, the
embellishing touches of probability, the
general air of scrupulous -
almost of pedantic - veracity, that the
experienced angler is seen.
Anybody can come in and say, "Oh, I
caught fifteen dozen perch yesterday
evening;" or "Last Monday I
landed a gudgeon, weighing eighteen pounds,
and measuring three feet from the tip to
the tail."
There is no art, no skill, required for
that sort of thing. It shows
pluck, but that is all.
No; your accomplished angler would scorn
to tell a lie, that way. His
method is a study in itself.
He comes in quietly with his hat on,
appropriates the most comfortable
chair, lights his pipe, and commences to
puff in silence. He lets the
youngsters brag away for a while, and
then, during a momentary lull, he
removes the pipe from his mouth, and
remarks, as he knocks the ashes out
against the bars:
"Well, I had a haul on Tuesday
evening that it's not much good my telling
anybody about."
"Oh! why's that?" they ask.
"Because I don't expect anybody
would believe me if I did," replies the
old fellow calmly, and without even a
tinge of bitterness in his tone, as
he refills his pipe, and requests the
landlord to bring him three of
Scotch, cold.
There is a pause after this, nobody
feeling sufficiently sure of himself
to contradict the old gentleman. So he
has to go on by himself without
any encouragement.
"No," he continues
thoughtfully; "I shouldn't believe it myself if
anybody told it to me, but it's a fact,
for all that. I had been sitting
there all the afternoon and had caught
literally nothing - except a few
dozen dace and a score of jack; and I was
just about giving it up as a
bad job when I suddenly felt a rather
smart pull at the line. I thought
it was another little one, and I went to
jerk it up. Hang me, if I could
move the rod! It took me half-an-hour -
half-an-hour, sir! - to land
that fish; and every moment I thought the
line was going to snap! I
reached him at last, and what do you
think it was? A sturgeon! a forty
pound sturgeon! taken on a line, sir!
Yes, you may well look surprised -
I'll have another three of Scotch,
landlord, please."
And then he goes on to tell of the
astonishment of everybody who saw it;
and what his wife said, when he got home,
and of what Joe Buggles thought
about it.
I asked the landlord of an inn up the
river once, if it did not injure
him, sometimes, listening to the tales
that the fishermen about there
told him; and he said:
"Oh, no; not now, sir. It did used
to knock me over a bit at first, but,
lor love you! me and the missus we
listens to `em all day now. It's what
you're used to, you know. It's what
you're used to."
I knew a young man once, he was a most
conscientious fellow, and, when he
took to fly-fishing, he determined never
to exaggerate his hauls by more
than twenty-five per cent.
"When I have caught forty
fish," said he, "then I will tell people that I
have caught fifty, and so on. But I will
not lie any more than that,
because it is sinful to lie."
But the twenty-five per cent. plan did
not work well at all. He never
was able to use it. The greatest number
of fish he ever caught in one
day was three, and you can't add
twenty-five per cent. to three - at
least, not in fish.
So he increased his percentage to
thirty-three-and-a-third; but that,
again, was awkward, when he had only
caught one or two; so, to simplify
matters, he made up his mind to just
double the quantity.
He stuck to this arrangement for a couple
of months, and then he grew
dissatisfied with it. Nobody believed him
when he told them that he only
doubled, and he, therefore, gained no
credit that way whatever, while his
moderation put him at a disadvantage
among the other anglers. When he
had really caught three small fish, and
said he had caught six, it used
to make him quite jealous to hear a man,
whom he knew for a fact had only
caught one, going about telling people he
had landed two dozen.
So, eventually, he made one final
arrangement with himself, which he has
religiously held to ever since, and that
was to count each fish that he
caught as ten, and to assume ten to begin
with. For example, if he did
not catch any fish at all, then he said
he had caught ten fish - you
could never catch less than ten fish by
his system; that was the
foundation of it. Then, if by any chance
he really did catch one fish,
he called it twenty, while two fish would
count thirty, three forty, and
so on.
It is a simple and easily worked plan,
and there has been some talk
lately of its being made use of by the
angling fraternity in general.
Indeed, the Committee of the Thames
Angler's Association did recommend
its adoption about two years ago, but
some of the older members opposed
it. They said they would consider the
idea if the number were doubled,
and each fish counted as twenty.
If ever you have an evening to spare, up
the river, I should advise you
to drop into one of the little village
inns, and take a seat in the tap-
room. You will be nearly sure to meet one
or two old rod-men, sipping
their toddy there, and they will tell you
enough fishy stories, in half
an hour, to give you indigestion for a
month.
George and I - I don't know what had
become of Harris; he had gone out
and had a shave, early in the afternoon,
and had then come back and spent
full forty minutes in pipeclaying his
shoes, we had not seen him since -
George and I, therefore, and the dog,
left to ourselves, went for a walk
to Wallingford on the second evening,
and, coming home, we called in at a
little river-side inn, for a rest, and
other things.
We went into the parlour and sat down.
There was an old fellow there,
smoking a long clay pipe, and we
naturally began chatting.
He told us that it had been a fine day
to-day, and we told him that it
had been a fine day yesterday, and then
we all told each other that we
thought it would be a fine day to-morrow;
and George said the crops
seemed to be coming up nicely.
After that it came out, somehow or other,
that we were strangers in the
neighbourhood, and that we were going
away the next morning.
Then a pause ensued in the conversation,
during which our eyes wandered
round the room. They finally rested upon
a dusty old glass-case, fixed
very high up above the chimney-piece, and
containing a trout. It rather
fascinated me, that trout; it was such a
monstrous fish. In fact, at
first glance, I thought it was a cod.
"Ah!" said the old gentleman,
following the direction of my gaze, "fine
fellow that, ain't he?"
"Quite uncommon," I murmured;
and George asked the old man how much he
thought it weighed.
"Eighteen pounds six ounces,"
said our friend, rising and taking down his
coat. "Yes," he continued,
"it wur sixteen year ago, come the third o'
next month, that I landed him. I caught
him just below the bridge with a
minnow. They told me he wur in the river,
and I said I'd have him, and
so I did. You don't see many fish that
size about here now, I'm
thinking. Good-night, gentlemen,
good-night."
And out he went, and left us alone.
We could not take our eyes off the fish
after that. It really was a
remarkably fine fish. We were still
looking at it, when the local
carrier, who had just stopped at the inn,
came to the door of the room
with a pot of beer in his hand, and he
also looked at the fish.
"Good-sized trout, that," said
George, turning round to him.
"Ah! you may well say that,
sir," replied the man; and then, after a pull
at his beer, he added, "Maybe you
wasn't here, sir, when that fish was
caught?"
"No," we told him. We were
strangers in the neighbourhood.
"Ah!" said the carrier,
"then, of course, how should you? It was nearly
five years ago that I caught that
trout."
"Oh! was it you who caught it,
then?" said I.
"Yes, sir," replied the genial
old fellow. "I caught him just below the
lock - leastways, what was the lock then
- one Friday afternoon; and the
remarkable thing about it is that I
caught him with a fly. I'd gone out
pike fishing, bless you, never thinking
of a trout, and when I saw that
whopper on the end of my line, blest if
it didn't quite take me aback.
Well, you see, he weighed twenty-six
pound. Good-night, gentlemen, good-
night."
Five minutes afterwards, a third man came
in, and described how he had
caught it early one morning, with bleak;
and then he left, and a stolid,
solemn-looking, middle-aged individual
came in, and sat down over by the
window.
None of us spoke for a while; but, at
length, George turned to the new
comer, and said:
"I beg your pardon, I hope you will
forgive the liberty that we - perfect
strangers in the neighbourhood - are
taking, but my friend here and
myself would be so much obliged if you
would tell us how you caught that
trout up there."
"Why, who told you I caught that
trout!" was the surprised query.
We said that nobody had told us so, but
somehow or other we felt
instinctively that it was he who had done
it.
"Well, it's a most remarkable thing
- most remarkable," answered the
stolid stranger, laughing; "because,
as a matter of fact, you are quite
right. I did catch it. But fancy your
guessing it like that. Dear me,
it's really a most remarkable
thing."
And then he went on, and told us how it
had taken him half an hour to
land it, and how it had broken his rod.
He said he had weighed it
carefully when he reached home, and it
had turned the scale at thirty-
four pounds.
He went in his turn, and when he was
gone, the landlord came in to us.
We told him the various histories we had
heard about his trout, and he
was immensely amused, and we all laughed
very heartily.
"Fancy Jim Bates and Joe Muggles and
Mr. Jones and old Billy Maunders all
telling you that they had caught it. Ha!
ha! ha! Well, that is good,"
said the honest old fellow, laughing
heartily. "Yes, they are the sort
to give it ME, to put up in MY parlour,
if THEY had caught it, they are!
Ha! ha! ha!"
And then he told us the real history of
the fish. It seemed that he had
caught it himself, years ago, when he was
quite a lad; not by any art or
skill, but by that unaccountable luck
that appears to always wait upon a
boy when he plays the wag from school,
and goes out fishing on a sunny
afternoon, with a bit of string tied on
to the end of a tree.
He said that bringing home that trout had
saved him from a whacking, and
that even his school-master had said it
was worth the rule-of-three and
practice put together.
He was called out of the room at this
point, and George and I again
turned our gaze upon the fish.
It really was a most astonishing trout.
The more we looked at it, the
more we marvelled at it.
It excited George so much that he climbed
up on the back of a chair to
get a better view of it.
And then the chair slipped, and George
clutched wildly at the trout-case
to save himself, and down it came with a
crash, George and the chair on
top of it.
"You haven't injured the fish, have
you?" I cried in alarm, rushing up.
"I hope not," said George,
rising cautiously and looking about.
But he had. That trout lay shattered into
a thousand fragments - I say a
thousand, but they may have only been
nine hundred. I did not count
them.
We thought it strange and unaccountable
that a stuffed trout should break
up into little pieces like that.
And so it would have been strange and
unaccountable, if it had been a
stuffed trout, but it was not.
That trout was plaster-of-Paris.
