Tom and East, in due time, found themselves by the side of the stream. There was only a small piece of fishable water in Englebourn. The fine stream, which, a mile or so below, in the Grange grounds, might be called a river, came into respectable existence only about two hundred yards above Englebourn Mill. Here two little chalk brooks met, and former millers had judiciously deepened the channel, and dammed the united waters back so as to get a respectable reservoir. Above the junction the little weedy, bright, creeping brooks afforded good sport for small truants groppling about with their hands, or bobbing with lob worms under the hollow banks, but were not available for the scientific angler. The parish ended at the fence next below the mill garden, on the other side of which the land was part of the Grange estate. So there was just the piece of still water above the mill, and the one field below it, over which Tom had leave. On ordinary occasions this would have been enough, with careful fishing, to last him till dark; but his nerves were probably somewhat excited by the events of the day, and East sat near and kept talking; so he got over his water faster than usual. At any rate, he had arrived for the second time at the envious fence before the sun was down. The fish were wondrous wary in the miller's bit of water—as might be expected, for they led a dog of a life there, between the miller and his men and their nets, and baits of all kinds always set. So Tom thought himself lucky to get a couple of decent fish, the only ones that were moving within his liberty; but he could not help looking with covetous eyes on the fine stretch of water below, all dimpling with rises.
“Why don't you get over and fish below?” said East, from his seat on the bank; “don't mind me. I can watch you; besides, lying on the turf on such an evening is luxury enough by itself.”
“I can't go. Both sides below belong to that fellow Wurley.”
“The sergeant's amiable landlord and prosecutor?”
“Yes; and the yeoman with whom you exchanged shots on the common.”
“Hang it, Tom, just jump over and catch a brace of his trout. Look how they are rising.”
“No, I don't know. I never was very particular about poaching, but somehow I shouldn't like to do it on his land. I don't like him well enough.”
“You're right, I believe. But just look there. There's a whopper rising not more than ten yards below the rail. You might reach him, I think, without trespassing, from where you stand.”
“Shall I have a shy at him?”
“Yes; it can't be poaching if you don't go on his grounds.”