“26th December.—At Trewern, Trevean, Penhale, Boswortha Cairn, Billy Hal’s moor, with Jack. 9 woodcock; 3 brace snipe, 2½ golden plover, 1 of teal; 1 big snipe, 1 mallard, 1 bittern. Wind keen as a razor on Boswortha Cairn, very lew in Billy Hal’s moor, which was full of ‘cock.’”
The old “Joe Manton,” which I have taken out of its case, is standing against my study-table, and a beautiful weapon it is, albeit the barrels are a trifle thin. Many days’ use have worn them so; but as far as I have been able to look back through the interesting diary there is only one entry with a bigger bag, and that was in the very winter when the scream of the iron horse silenced the coach-horn, and gave such a shock to Penwith’s customs. If you ask of what year I have been writing, I will tell you in our West-country way—by naming an unusual event—that it was the year when a pilchard seine was shot on Christmas Day, and tucked in a snowstorm under the cliffs, on which a beacon, to spread the glad tidings, was lighted on a spot whence wireless messages are now transmitted across the seas.
CHAPTER XVI BASS FISHING AT THE LAND’S END
TWO fishermen strained at the creaking oars, and held the boat in the tide-race close under the Longships lighthouse, whilst I grasped the taut line, at the end of which a sand-eel was spinning. We could see the bass in their play break the surface some twenty yards astern, and every instant I expected that the bait would be seized. What sport those big fish would have given in the strong current! But no, the bass refused to bite at the silvery lure spinning under their very nose. We changed the bait—tried pilchard, squid, ray’s liver, spider-crab; we varied the length of the line, the weight of the lead; we trailed the bait along the edge of the school; in short, we did all we knew. It was of no use. “They’re not on the feed, sir,” said old Matthey, after two hours of this exasperating work. There was no gainsaying this palpable truth, but in my own mind I set the fact down to piscine cussedness. I had come to Sennen for my holidays in order to try and kill a big bass, and it seemed as if the bad luck that had dogged me wherever I had gone in quest of this fish, pursued me still. In West-country phrase, I appeared to be ill-wished. It was on the top of the spring, and we had fished with apparently every condition in our favour except the clearness of the water. “What’s wanted,” said Matthey’s mate as we approached the wooden slip, “is a bit of a tumble, to stir the bottom and thicken the water.”