Thus Tom Peregrine, the keeper, when he sees the fly gradually coming up, will say:  “I can see how it will be—­next Friday will be Durby day.  You must ‘meet’ the fly that day; ‘be sure and give it the meeting,’ sir.  We shall want six rods on the water on Friday.”  He is so desperately keen to kill fish that he would sooner have six rods and moderate sport for each fisherman than three rods and good sport all round.  Wonderfully sanguine is this fellow’s temperament: 

     “A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays
       And confident to-morrows.”

It is always “just about a good day for fishing” before you start; and if you have a bad day, he consoles you with an account of an extraordinary day last week, or one you are to have next week.  Sometimes it was last season that was so good; “or it will be a splendid season next year,” for some reason or other only known to himself.

Three good anglers are quite sufficient for two miles of fishing on the best of days.  Experience has taught us that “too many cooks spoil the broth” even in the may-fly season.

I shall never forget a most lamentable, though somewhat laughable, occurrence which took place five years ago.  Foolishly responding to the entreaties of our enthusiastic friend the keeper, we actually did ask five people to fish one “Durby day.”  As luck would have it they all came; but unfortunately a neighbouring squire, who owns part of the water, but who seldom turns up to fish, also chose that day, and with him came his son.  Seven was bad enough in all conscience, but imagine my feelings when a waggonette drove up, full of undergraduates from Oxford:  my brother, who was one of the undergraduates, had brought them down on the chance, and without any warning.  Of course they all wanted to fish, though for the most part they were quite innocent of the art of throwing a fly.  Result:  ten or a dozen fisherman, all in each other’s way; every rising fish in the brook frightened out of its wits; and very little sport.  The total catch for the day was only thirty trout, or exactly what three rods ought to have caught.

These were the sort of remarks one had to put up with:  “I say, old chap, there’s a d——­d fellow in a mackintosh suit up stream; he’s bagged my water”; or, “Who is that idiot who has been flogging away all the afternoon in one place?  Does he think he’s beating carpets, or is he an escaped lunatic from Hanwell?”

The whole thing was too absurd; it was like a fishing competition on the Thames at Twickenham.

Since this never-to-be-forgotten day I have come to the conclusion that to have too few anglers is better than too many; also, alas! that it is quite useless to ask your friends to come unless they are accomplished fishermen.  It takes years of practice to learn the art of catching south-country trout in these days, when every fish knows as well as we do the difference between the real fly and the artificial.  One might as well ask a lot of schoolboys to a big “shoot,” as issue indiscriminate invitations to fish.