The weather broke, we had a deluge, and then came
a soft cloudy day, with a warm southern wind suggesting a final march on
Loch Nan. I packed some scones and marmalade into my creel, filled my
flask with whiskey, my cigarette-case with cigarettes, and started on the
familiar track with the happiest anticipations. The Lone Fisher was
quite out of my mind; the day was exhilarating--one of those true fishing-
days when you feel the presence of the sun without seeing him. Still, I
looked rather cautiously over the edge of the slope above the loch, and,
by Jove! there he was, fishing the near side, and wading deep among the
reeds! I did not stalk him this time, but set off running down the
hillside behind him, as quickly as my basket, with its load of waders and
boots, would permit. I was within forty yards of him, when he gave a
wild stagger, tried to recover himself, failed, and, this time,
disappeared in a perfectly legitimate and accountable manner. The
treacherous peaty bottom had given way, and his floating hat, with a
splash on the surface, and a few black bubbles, were all that testified
to his existence. There was a broken old paling hard by; I tore off a
long plank, waded in as near as I dared, and, by help of the plank, after
a good deal of slipping, which involved an exemplary drenching, I
succeeded in getting him on to dry land.
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