"But, look here, there's no need for me to keep you; Pottinger will drive you to this place, Carysford, where we stay the night--I've engaged rooms--and you can have a warm bath and get into the dress-clothes after which you are hankering.

When I've caught a fish or two I'll come on after you.

Don't argue, now!" "My dear Stafford, I haven't the least intention of doing so; I'm simply dying for a bath, a change, and a huge fire; and when you arrive you'll find me sitting over the latter humbly thanking God that I'm not a sportsman." Stafford nodded, with his eyes on the stream.
"I should give the nags some gruel, Pottinger, and put an extra coat on them: it'll be cold to-night.

Ta, ta, Howard! Tell 'em to get a nice dinner; I'll be there in time for 'em to cook the fish; but don't wait if I should be late--say half past seven." "I promise you I won't," retorted Howard, fervently.

"And I am one of those men who never break a promise--unless it's inconvenient." The phaeton drove on, Stafford went down to the stream, put up his rod, chose a fly as carefully as if the fate of a kingdom depended on it, and began to fish.
There is this great advantage in the art of fly-fishing: that while you are engaged in it you can think of nothing else: it is as absorbing as love or scarlet fever.