At half-past ten, Fishpingle and he took the path leading to the river. Fishpingle, in a very sporting coat and knickerbockers (which had been discarded by the Squire), might have been mistaken at a short distance for that potentate. He was doubtful about the prospects. The sun had risen high above the clouds and the breeze was dying down. To his astonishment, Lionel displayed indifference, saying incisively:
“I want to have a long yarn with you, old chap. If the trout aren’t on the rise, so much the better.”
Fishpingle stared at him keenly.
“That doesn’t sound like you, Master Lionel.”
“I’m not myself this morning. I’ve a big load that I must get off my chest. We’ll sit under a willow while I do it.”
The trout were not feeding, as Fishpingle had predicted. There might be a nice “rise” later on. Lionel glanced up and down the stream. Joyce was not on the “rise” either. A clump of willows was found, and the men sat down, Lionel wasted no time.
“I’ve had a shock, Fishpingle. I never knew till this morning that there was a crippling mortgage on this property. I never knew that father was pinched and pinching. What did he get for the shooting, eh?”
Fishpingle, who knew the exact amount, answered cautiously:
“Several hundred pounds.”
“Now, sit tight! I’m going to give you a shock, I owe several hundred pounds, and I must tell father at the first decent opportunity.”