As he passed the gates of the stable-yard, the keeper came out—a sturdy bullet-headed fellow, in a velveteen coat, and cord breeches and gaiters—and touched his hat. Tom returned the salute, and wished him good morning.
“Mornin', sir; you be about early.”
“Yes; I reckon it's the best time for sport at the end of June.”
“'Tis so, Sir. Shall I fetch a net, and come along!”
“No, thank you, I'll manage the ladle myself. But which do you call the best water?”
“They be both middling good. They ain't much odds atwixt 'em. But I see most fish movin' o' mornin's in the deep water down below.”
“I don't know; the night was too hot,” said Tom, who had examined the water the day before, and made up his mind where he was going. “I'm for deep water on cold days; I shall begin with the stickles up above. There's a good head of water on, I suppose?”
“Plenty down this last week, sir.”
“Come along, then; we'll walk together, if you're going that way.” So Tom stepped off, brushing through the steaming long grass, gemmed with wild flowers, followed by the keeper; and, as the grasshoppers bounded chirruping out of his way, and the insect life hummed and murmured, and the lark rose and sang above his head, he felt happier than he had done for many a long month. So his heart opened towards his companion, who kept a little behind him.
“What size do you take 'em out, keeper?”