“What do I want with the great slimy beggar?” the arrogant Bolt made answer. “A good rat is worth fifty of him. No fear of my going near him, Pike. You shan't get out of it that way.”
Pike showed his remarkable qualities that day, by fishing exactly as he would have fished without having heard of the great Crockerite. He was up and away upon the mill-stream before breakfast; and the forenoon he devoted to his favourite course—first down the Craddock stream, a very pretty confluent of the Culm, and from its junction, down the pleasant hams, where the river winds toward Uffculme. It was my privilege to accompany this hero, as his humble Sancho; while Bolt and the faster race went up the river ratting. We were back in time to have Pike's trout (which ranged between two ounces and one-half pound) fried for the early dinner; and here it may be lawful to remark that the trout of the Culm are of the very purest excellence, by reason of the flinty bottom, at any rate in these the upper regions. For the valley is the western outlet of the Black-down range, with the Beacon hill upon the north, and Hackpen long ridge to the south; and beyond that again the Whetstone hill, upon whose western end dark port-holes scarped with white grit mark the pits. But flint is the staple of the broad Culm Valley, under good, well-pastured loam; and here are chalcedonies and agate stones.
At dinner everybody had a brace of trout—large for the larger folk, little for the little ones, with coughing and some patting on the back for bones. What of equal purport could the fierce rat-hunter show? Pike explained many points in the history of each fish, seeming to know them none the worse, and love them all the better, for being fried. We banqueted, neither a whit did soul get stinted of banquet impartial. Then the wielder of the magic rod very modestly sought leave of absence at the tea time.
“Fishing again, Mr. Pike, I suppose,” my father answered pleasantly; “I used to-be fond of it at your age; but never so entirely wrapped up in it as you are.”
“No, sir; I am not going fishing again. I want to walk to Wellington, to get some things at Cherry's.”
“Books, Mr. Pike? Ah! I am very glad of that. But I fear it can only be fly-books.”
“I want a little Horace for eighteen-pence—the Cambridge one just published, to carry in my pocket—and a new hank of gut.”
“Which of the two is more important? Put that into Latin, and answer it.”
“Utrum pluris facio? Flaccum flocci. Viscera magni.” With this vast effort Pike turned as red as any trout spot.
“After that who could refuse you?” said my father. “You always tell the truth, my boy, in Latin or in English.”