I was awakened next morning by a spongeful of cold water in the face,
which I hate. I started up to wreak vengeance upon Sweetheart, but she
fled to the toilet room and locked herself in. From this retreat she
taunted me until further sleep was out of the question, and I bowed
to the inevitable--indignantly, when I saw my watch pointed to five
o'clock.
Sweetheart was perfectly possessed to row; so when I had bolted my
coffee and sat watching her placidly sip hers, we decided to go down to
the bank of the little stream and hire a boat. The boat was a wretched,
shapeless affair, with two enormous oars and the remnants of rowlocks.
It was the best boat in town, so we took it. I managed to get away
from the bank, and, conscious of Sweetheart's open admiration, pulled
boldly down the stream. It was easy work, for the tide was ebbing. The
river up to the bridge was tidal, but above the bridge it leaped and
flowed, a regular salmon stream. Sweetheart was so impatient to take
the oars that I relinquished them and picked up my rod. The boat swung
down the stream and under the high stone viaduct, where I insisted
on anchoring and whipping the promising-looking water. The water was
likely enough, and the sudden splash of a leaping grilse added to its
likelihood. I was in hopes a grilse might become entangled with one of
the flies, but though a big one shot up out of the water within five
feet of Sweetheart, causing her to utter a suppressed scream, neither
grilse nor trout rose to the beautiful lures I trailed about, and I
only hooked two or three enormous dace, which came up like logs and
covered the bottom of the boat with their coarse scales.
Sweetheart had never seen a French trout uncooked, and scarcely shared
my disappointment.
"They are splendid fish," she repeated; "you are unreasonable."
There was an ancient Breton squatting on the bank; from his sulky
attitude I took him to be a poacher visiting his infernal set lines and
snares; but I hailed him pleasantly with a bonjour, which he returned
civilly enough.
"Are there trout in this stream?"
"About the bridge," he replied cautiously.
"Have you caught any?"
"I ain't fishing," he said, much alarmed.
"What's that?" I demanded, pointing to as plump a trout as ever I saw,
floating on the end of a string under the bank.
"Where?" he asked, looking about him with affected concern.
"There!"
He looked around, everywhere except where I pointed. He examined the
horizon, and the tree tops, as though he expected a fish on every twig.
I poled the boat up to the bank and pointed out the fish.
"Ma doui!" he exclaimed, "there _is_ a fish!"
"Yes, a trout," I said.
"Trout?" He burst into a forced laugh. "Trout! Ha! ha! Why, monsieur,
that is a dace--a poor little dace!" He hastily jerked it up with a
long homemade gaff which lay--of course quite by accident--at his feet.
"A poor little dace!" he mumbled. "Of course, monsieur would not care
to claim such a poor, coarse little fish; but I am only too glad to eat
it--ah, yes, only too glad!"
"You see," said Sweetheart impulsively, "that you are wrong. Give him
our fish; that will make four dace for the poor fellow."
I placed the three dace across the blade of my oar and held it out to
the poacher. He took them as if he were really glad to get them. Then
I said, "These are dace, and they don't have red spots."
He stood as if ready to bolt, but I laughed, and settled back on my
oars, saying: "You're a poacher; but I don't care a continental, and
you can poach all day in this confounded country, where there is about
one trout to the kilometre. Don't look scared. What do I care? Only
don't tell me I'm unable to distinguish a trout when I can see the tip
of his nose."