“Clear, isn’t it?” he said pleasantly. “I back our Kenner any day against the Test. Look at that big fellow. Four pounds if he’s an ounce. But the evening rise is over and you can’t tempt ’em.”

“I don’t see him,” said I.

“Look! There! A yard from the reeds just above that stickle.”

“I’ve got him now. You might swear he was a black stone.”

“So,” he said, and whistled another bar of “Annie Laurie.”

“Twisdon’s the name, isn’t it?” he said over his shoulder, his eyes still fixed on the stream.

“No,” I said. “I mean to say, Yes.” I had forgotten all about my alias.