e Bush at a point
where that wide stream runs into Scapa Flow by the Bay of Ireland.
This, I had found, was a favourite resting place for sea trout
before running into the lochs, and here I enjoyed good sport for
the whole morning.

I fished upstream--as I think a true angler should do--for though,
as Andrew Drever held, fishing downward was the easier method of
the two, especially with the wind at his back, yet I preferred my
own way, just as I preferred fishing with artificial fly to fishing
with bait, merely because it was more difficult and more surely
exercised my skill.

The third cast I made filled me with an enthusiasm I long had
known. A sudden jerk at the line and a fish was hooked. I paid out
more line as the trout darted off, then drew in as it slackened
again. Once more, as the fish felt the strain, he plunged off. I
saw him jump, and his scales flashed in the gray light like a
bright blade of steel, a loop of line gathering round him. At
length the prize was taken, and a fine sea trout was brought
exhausted to the bank.

Thus I fished, now wading to the knees in the rapid stream, now
sitting on a large stone readjusting my flies. Before noon the rain
fell heavily, but by the time that I reached the Bridge of Waithe
my basket was full, and I walked along the road as far as Clouston,
the dog following in the wet with drooping, draggling tail, and
ears dripping with the rain.

My clothes were wet through and I was cold, and, wishing for
shelter and a bite of food, I turned across the heath to Jack
Paterson's croft. I opened the door of the little cottage without
knocking, and found Jack and his wife Jean at home, with their
family of six waiting for their midday meal. Hilda, the eldest
girl, was arranging some wooden dishes on the table ready for the
potatoes.

Poor as the place was, I received a true and simple welcome, and I
was glad of the shelter and the warmth, for the wind was whistling
round the eaves and the heavy rain pelting against the little
window.

Jack Paterson was a poor crofter, who added to his scanty means by
going to the deep-sea fishing, or, out of the fishing season, by
burning kelp. These occupations, combined with the produce of his
croft, made up, I am afraid, a very poor living. The cottage was
small, so small that I always wondered how so large a family could
live in its one little room with any comfort. In the middle of the
clay floor, on a stone slab, was a large peat f