“But do you mean that he was drowned?” I asked.

“Faith, an’ he was that, sorr—­complately.”

I promised Mr. McGrath that I would observe his instructions carefully, and that gentleman, after placing the rods, live-bait bucket, luncheon-basket and other articles on board, took his seat in the bow, and we proceeded.  We had two boats for my companion and myself, and an experienced man in each.  Mr. McGrath had fallen to my lot, and my companion had a darkey named Pete.  We were to go up the canal some four miles, and then, launching the boats into the river, were to fish slowly down with the current.  We had a horse and tow-rope, and a small boy, mounted on the animal, started off at a smart trot.  It was quite exhilarating, and the boats dashed along merrily at a capital rate.  A gray mist hung low on the river, and thin wraiths of it rose off the water of the canal and crept up the mountain-side, shrouding the black pines and hiding the summit from view.  Beyond, the tops of the hills on the Virginia shore were beginning to blush as they caught the first rays of sunrise, and the fish-hawk’s puny scream echoed from the islands in the stream.  It was a lovely morning, and promised a day, as Mr. McGrath observed, on which some elegant fish should die.  After a few delays at locks, in which canal-boats took precedence of us, we reached our point of transshipment, hauled the boats out on the bank, and our horse drew them sleigh-fashion across field and down to and out into the water.

I had a light split bamboo rod, a good silk line and a fair assortment of flies.  Mr. McGrath had a common bamboo cane, a battered old reel, and the value of his outfit might be generously estimated at half a dollar.  In his live-bait bucket were about a hundred fish, varying in length from two to six inches.  He did not prepare to fish himself, but was watching me with the deepest attention.  He held the boat across the stream toward the opposite shore, and by the time we dropped down on a large flat rock I was ready.  I got out, and there being a pleasant air stirring, I made my casts with a great deal of ease and comfort.  There was a deep hole below the rocks, bordered on both sides by a swift ripple—­as pretty a spot as ever a fly was thrown over.  I sped them over it in all directions, casting fifty and sixty feet of line, and admiring the soft flutter with which they dropped on the edge of the ripple or the open water.  Mr. McGrath was surveying the operation critically, nodding his head in approval from side to side, and uttering short ejaculations of the most flattering nature.  I kept whipping the stream assiduously, so satisfied with my work and the style of it as to feel confident that no well-regulated fish could resist it.  But there was no appearance of a rise:  not a sign appeared on the water to show even the approach of a speculative fish.  I was about to note the fact to Mr. McGrath when that gentleman remarked, “Begorra! but it’s illigant sport it’d be if the bass ’ud only bite at them things!”