# An Angler at Large/Chapter 22

Since my first meeting with Mr. Blennerhassett, I have never until to-day happened to find that peremptory gentleman by the riverside. I have not missed him. Such people do not add to the charm of the water-meadows. Living as I do on the very water, I am able to pick and choose my moments for angling, and seldom fish for more than a few hours each day. The Blennerhassett comes from a distance, and cannot always do that. It is scarcely odd, then, that in all this long time I have not encountered him. No, it is only fortunate.
To-day, however, as I sat on a hatch in the lower of the Two Meadows, with my feet in the water, digesting my breakfast and reflecting on the value of the kipper to trout-fishers, I was hailed from behind, and turning perceived Mr. Blennerhassett striding towards me. Next moment he towered above me, and the fish which I ​had not yet put down abandoned its meal and that part of the Clere.
The Blennerhassett followed its wake with an approving eye. "That's a tidy one," he said. I assented. "I saw him yesterday," he said. "So did I," I replied, wondering if he knew of the two-pounder that feeds under the alder just above that hatch. "Have you," he went on, "such a thing as a light about you? I've left my damned box at home." I handed him my box of safeties. He lit a cigarette, absolutely thanking me. I have seldom been more gratified. "Done anything?" he asked. I said that I never did anything. He informed me that he had only been on the water half an hour, but that he had a fish. I murmured my delight. He opened his basket and exhibited a trout. It was plainly undersized. "This," he said, "is the third damned trout I've had out of this damned river."
Now what is to be said of a man who can damn the Clere? Whatever it is I did not say it. But I observed that he seemed to have had a poor season. Indeed, I knew as much, for Joe has kept me abreast of the doings of my fellow-rods. He said he had. I waited for him still further to qualify his season. I was not disappointed. "A damned poor one," he said. "What fly do you generally ​use?" he asked. I told him that lately I had found a ginger quill no more inefficacious than other patterns. "I haven't any," he said. "I'd thank you for a couple." I gave him one, but none the less he thanked me as he fastened it to his gut.
"You staying in this field?" he asked. I said I was. It was evident to me that he knew of the two-pounder. "Then," said he, with an anxious glance towards the alder, "I'll be getting on."
I reminded him that he still had my matches.
He took them from his pocket. Then he said: "You live here, don't you?" I said I did. "Well," he said, "it would be very kind of you if you'd let me have these. I'm far from home," he added, with pathetic humour, "and matchless." He was right.
I said: "Please keep the box." He replaced it in his pocket. "Thank you," he said, for the third time. "A cigarette?" He opened a case full of gold-tipped things. Now there is only one cigarette. I declined his magnanimous offer. He looked rather amazed, I thought.
When he had gone quite away I left the meadow and walked about two hundred yards to old Mrs. Pescod's shop, where I got some matches. Then I was able to smoke again.
​When I got back to the meadow, this Blennerhassett was kneeling by the hatch flicking my ginger quill towards my two-pound trout.
But he didn't catch it. It is still there.