“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.

“It’s a wise conspirator that knows his own name,” he observed, grinning broadly at a moorhen that emerged from the bridge’s shadow.

I stood up and looked at him, at the square, cleft jaw and broad, lined brow and the firm folds of cheek, and began to think that here at last was an ally worth having. His whimsical blue eyes seemed to go very deep.

Suddenly he frowned. “I call it disgraceful,” he said, raising his voice. “Disgraceful that an able-bodied man like you should dare to beg. You can get a meal from my kitchen, but you’ll get no money from me.”

A dogcart was passing, driven by a young man who raised his whip to salute the fisherman. When he had gone, he picked up his rod.

“That’s my house,” he said, pointing to a white gate a hundred yards on. “Wait five minutes and then go round to the back door.” And with that he left me.