Never had I noticed a human being there before, and I was not
well pleased to think that some emissary of Mr. Watson Lyall was making
experiments in Loch Nan, and would describe it in "The Sportsman's
Guide." The mist blew white and thick for a minute or two over the loch-
side, as it often does at Loch Skene; so white and thick and sudden that
the bewildered angler there is apt to lose his way, and fall over the
precipice of the Grey Mare's Tail. When the curtain of cloud rose again,
the loch was lonely: the angler had disappeared. I went on rejoicing,
and made a pretty good basket, as the weather improved and grew warmer--a
change which gives an appetite to trout in some hill lochs. Among the
sands between the stones on the farther bank I found traces of the
angler's footsteps; he was not a phantom, at all events, for phantoms do
not wear heavily nailed boots, as he evidently did. The traces, which
were soon lost, of course, inclined me to think that he had retreated up
a narrow green burnside, with rather high banks, through which, in rainy
weather, a small feeder fell into the loch. I guessed that he had been
frightened away by the descent of the mist, which usually "puts down" the
trout and prevents them from feeding. In that case his alarm was
premature. I marched homewards, happy with the unaccustomed weight of my
basket, the contents of which were a welcome change from the usual
porridge and potatoes, tea (without milk), jam, and scones of the
shepherd's table.
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