He had left the outskirts of the forest far behind, threading the rugged oaks, to make his way through the undergrowth that flourished amongst the beeches—huge forest monarchs that had once been pollarded by the foresters of old, to sprout out again upon losing their heads into a cluster of fresh stems, each a big tree—so ancient that, as the boy gazed back at them from where he wound his way in and out, following the curves and zigzags of the little river, he asked himself why it was that this tract of land was called the New Forest, where everything looked so old.
“How stupid!” he muttered, the next moment. “I forgot. Of course, it was because William Rufus made it for hunting in. It was new then if it isn’t now. I wonder whether he ever fished for trout,” added the boy, with a laugh. “Good thing for him if he had; people who go fishing don’t often get shot. Ah! there ought to be one here.”
The denseness of the briars and wild-rose tangles had forced him to make a détour, and now, on drawing near the river again, he came upon so likely a spot that, practising the greatest caution, he dropped his big ugly fly through what was quite a hole in the overgrowth of verdure, beneath which the water lay still and dark.
He was quite right. He felt that there ought to be a fish there waiting for some big fat caterpillar or fly to drop from the leaves above; and his ugly lure had hardly touched the surface of the water before there was a loud smack, a disturbance as if a stone had been thrown in to fall without a splash, and a well-hooked trout was darting here and there at the end of the short line, making frantic struggles to escape.
But though Waller Froy had so many yards of twisted silk upon his winch for the convenience of lowering and winding-in his bait, the tangle of bushes and overhanging boughs necessitated fishing with a tight line, with trust in its strength for the rapid hauling out of the prize.
It was no question of skill, but the roughest of rough work; and after a few rapid plunges and splashes, the fish was lifted out on to the bank, to begin leaping and making the first steps to entangle the line amongst the twigs which rose everywhere about the boy’s knees.
“What a beauty!” he cried, as he released his hook, placed his prize in his creel, and proceeded to examine his ruffled fly, getting it ready for tempting another fish.
This was tried for in a similar place about a dozen yards farther along the river, but without result; and on stepping onwards the river wound along a dell amongst the great beech trees, with the sunlight flashing from the surface and turning to bronzed silver patch after patch of bracken that spread its broad fronds in glistening sheets five and six feet high.
There was no tempting fishing-place here among the broad slopes, but beyond there was more than one favourite spot from which in times past the boy had taken many a speckled beauty, and to reach one of these he was pressing on with arms raised, and creel and rod held high, simply wading, as it were, through the rustling bracken, and every now and then beating back some frond that attacked his face, when, all at once, he stopped short, with his heart beating fast, for there was a quick rush, and something sprang up from almost at his feet and dashed away.
The bracken was so thick that all he saw was the quivering fronds, and, with no other thought than to catch a glimpse of the deer he had started from its lair, Waller rapidly gave a turn to the ferrule which made one rod of its two joints, and, using the butt to strike right and left at the ferns which impeded his way, he dashed on for about a dozen yards, and then stopped short. For he had brought his quarry to bay, forcing it to turn upon him fiercely, while the boy’s heart beat faster still from the exertion mingled with his startled surprise.