green woodpeckers aren't trout, and he wouldn't take
my fly if I dropped it near him, and I don't want him to. Now, then,
what do you say to a try here?"

The lad asked himself the question, and responded by going on cautiously
for about a dozen yards through about the most unsuitable pieces of
woodland possible for a fly-fisher to try his craft.

But Waller Froy, only son of the Squire of Brackendene, was not going to
wield a twelve-foot fly-rod, tapering and lissom, and suitable for
sending a delicate line floating through the air to drop its lure
lightly on the surface of the water. Such practices would have been
utterly impossible on any part of the woodland rivulet. But, all the
same, he knew perfectly well what he was about, and how to catch the
large, fat, dark-coloured, speckled beauties that haunted the stream--
the only way, in fact, unless he had descended to the poacher-like
practice of "tickling," and that he scorned.

Waller's way was to proceed cautiously through the undergrowth without
stirring bough or leaf till he came to some opening on the bank where he
could see the dark, slowly gliding stream, or perhaps eddy, through the
overhanging boughs.

Then, with his fly wound up close to the top ring of his short rod, he
would pass it through the leaves and twigs with the greatest care and
unwind again, letting the fly descend till it dropped lightly on the
surface. This he did patiently in fully a dozen different places,
winding up after each attempt, and then cautiously following the edge of
the stream to try again wherever he came upon a suitable spot. But upon
that particular occasion the trout were not at home at the lairs he
tried, or else not hungry, so the fly was drawn up again for fresh
trials.

"It's too hot," muttered the boy.

But he had all the good qualities of a fisherman, including patience and
perseverance, and he went on and on deeper and deeper into the forest,
managing so skilfully that he never once entangled his line.

It was very beautiful there in the soft shades. The sun was almost
completely shut out, and in some of the openings the pools looked
absolutely black, while Waller, perfectly confident that there were
plenty of good pound trout lurking in this hiding-place of theirs, went
on and on.

He had left the outskirts of the forest far behind, threading the rugged
oaks, to make his way through the undergrowth that flourished amongst
the beeches--huge forest mona