“Not a bit,” said Josh. “How can a little hook, a thread of gut, a few small feathers, and some dubbing, be like a coachman?”
“Get out, Clevershakes! What an old chop-logic you are! I didn’t christen that kind of artificial fly a coachman; but it’s a well-made one, isn’t it, Mr Manners?”
“Well, yes, very nicely made; but it’s not a London maker’s idea of a jarvey.”
“No,” said Will, “but it’s the sort that will catch the fish. You’d never guess whose make that is.”
“Why, it’s yours, my lad.”
“Yes; but you don’t know who taught me.”
“Not I; but I should like you to make me half a dozen more.”
“All right; I will; a dozen, if you like. They suit our waters fine. That’s old Boil O’s pattern. He taught me; he used to say that the proper way to make a fly was to watch the real one first, and make it as near as you could like that—not take a copy from somebody’s book.”
“Quite right,” said the artist; “old Boil O’s a philosopher.”
“I wish he was a sensible man instead,” said Will. “I’ve been thinking, Mr Manners, that as you live here and know him so well—”