I have seen Il Maestro himself in Timber, and in brushwood too. From him I learned to disentangle knots, intricate and perplexed far beyond the Gordian—"with frizzled hair implicit"—round twig, branch, or bole. Not more than half-a-dozen times of the forty that I may have been fast aloft—I speak mainly of my noviciate—have I had to effect liberation by sacrifice.
SEWARD.
Pardon me, Mr Talboys, for hinting that you smacked off your tail-fly to-day—I knew it by the sound.
TALBOYS.
The sound! No trusting to an uncertain sound, Mr Seward. Oh! I did so once—but intentionally—the hook had lost the barb—not a fish would it hold—so I whipped it off, and on with a Professor.
BULLER.
You lost one good fish in rather an awkward manner, Mr Talboys.
TALBOYS.
I did—that metal minnow of yours came with a splash within an inch of his nose—and no wonder he broke me—nay, I believe it was the minnow that broke me—and yet you can speak of my losing a good fish in rather an awkward manner!