“Bite at them?” said I, turning round:  “of course they’ll bite at them.”

“Sorra bit will they, sorr.  It’s just wondherin’ they are if them things up above is good to ate, but they’re too lazy to step up an’ inquire.  Augh, be me sowl! but it’s the thruth I tell you.  Now, if it was a dacent throut that were there, he’d be afther acceptin’ yer invite in a minit; but them bass—­begorra! they’re not amaynable to the fly at all.”

Now, if there is anything that I have been brought up to despise, it is fishing with “bait.”  Fly-fishing I have learned to regard as the only legitimate method of taking any fish that any sportsman ought to fish for, and fishing with a worm and a cork I always looked upon as equal to shooting a partridge on the ground in May.  I did not believe Mr. McGrath, and I told him, as I resumed my graceful occupation, that I didn’t think there were any fish there to catch.  The idea of their rejecting flies served up as mine were was too preposterous.

“Well,” said he, “ye may be right, sorr:  there may be none there at all; but I’ll thry them wid a bait, anyhow.”

In another minute Mr. McGrath was slashing about right and left a bait which to my disordered vision looked as big as a Yarmouth bloater.  He threw it in every direction with great vigor and precision, and, as I could not help noticing, with very little splashing.  I turned away with emotion, and continued my fly-fishing.  Presently I heard an exclamation from Mr. McGrath, quickly succeeded by an ominous whirring of his reel.

“Luk at the vagabone, sorr! luk at him now!  Run, ye divil ye! run!” he cried as he facilitated the departure of the line, which was going out at a famous rate.  “Bedad! he’s a fine mikroptheros!  Whisht! he’s stopped.—­Take that, ye spalpeen ye!”

As he said this he gave his rod a strong jerk, that brought the line up with a “zip” out of the water in a long ridge, and the old bamboo cane bent until it cracked.  At the same moment, about a hundred and fifty feet away, a splendid fish leaped high and clear out of the water with the line dangling from his mouth.  Mr. McGrath had struck him fairly, and away he went across stream as hard as he could tear.

“Take the rod, sorr, while I get the landing-net.  Kape a tight line on him, sorr:  niver let him deludher ye.  It’s an illigant mikroptheros he is, sure!”

He returned from the boat in a moment with the landing-net, but absolutely refused to take back his rod:  “Sorra bit, sorr:  bring him in.  It’s great fun ye’ll have wid the vagabone in that current!  No, sorr:  bring him in yerself, sorr:  ye’ll niver lay it at my door that the first fish hooked wasn’t brought in.”