"Not so bad," said Mr. Ferguson. "I've sometimes caught trout with it."
"You surprise me," said Wimsey, not unnaturally, since he had invented the Pink Sisket on the spur of the moment, and had hardly expected his improvisation to pass muster. "Well, I suppose this unlucky accident has put a stop to your sport for the season. Damned bad luck. Otherwise, you might have helped us to have a go at the Patriarch."
"What's that? A trout?"
"Yes—a frightfully wily old fish. Lurks about in the Fleet. You never know where to find him. Any moment he may turn up in some pool or other. I'm going out with Mac to try for him to-day. He's a jewel of a fellow. We've nicknamed him Great-Uncle Joseph. Hi! don't joggle about like that—you'll hurt that knee of yours. Is there anything I can get for you?"
He grinned amiably, and turned to answer a shout from the stairs.
"Hullo! Wimsey! is that you?"
"It is. How's sport?"
Macpherson came up the stairs four steps at a time, and met Wimsey on the landing as he emerged from the bedroom.
"I say, d'you know who that is? It's Robert."
"I know. I saw him in town. Never mind him. Have you found Great-Uncle?"