“Dog-fish? What may they be?”
“Some call them trotters,” they returned, and showed me the can in which their take had been deposited; but although I looked attentively, I could see nothing. They assured me, however, that they were there safe enough, and I was glad they enjoyed the sport, though I could not say much for the fry.
The Monster Trout.
Trudging on in the chequered light which the sunshine cast through the glossy leaves of witch elms, I came to a man feeding ducks. It was one o’clock, and he was eating his dinner of bread and cucumber, with a clasp knife. Every minute he was throwing in pieces of bread, and watching their scrambles. I stopped as I was passing. He looked at me with a smile, and said—
“I think they are getting nearly as much as I am.”
“You seem very liberal to them,” I replied.
“Yes; but they ought not to be here. This is a nursery, and they eat the small fish.”
“Are there any large fish in the stream?” I inquired.
“Oh, yes, very often; but I take them out and put them into the river. The Itchen is the place for the large fish.”
“What sized fish have you there?”