islanders to say that he had been very aptly named. His neck was like a rope with a skin-clad skull on top of it. His knickerbockers cracked in the wind about his thin shanks, as he stood in the dinghy and fished, fished, fished from June to September. âIâll catch a thirteen-pounder before I die,â he whined through his nose. âI will. I will. I will.â
But all he caught were little tiddlers, or half-pounders, or pounders. One marvellous day he caught a six-and-a-half-pounder. His thin face split with delight as he weighed that trout on the hotel scales. Mrs Stick and Constantine were pleased that day, too â it meant that the vinegar of him would be changed to honey, for one evening at least. But then the colonelâs eye caught the fish in the display case, and he scowled. Why should a tramp like Steve Smith have all the glory, while he, a gallant and honourable soldier, was condemned to fish, fish, fish, for little bits of tarnish? It was an unfair world.
***
Every evening that summer, as the colonel turned his back on the loch, he observed a black cat sitting on the grassy verge above. This black cat knew a thing or two, that much was obvious. As soon as a trout fisher waded ashore, there was this black cat waiting for him. As often as not the trout fisher would throw him a little fish, and then Fankle â for of course it was Fankle â would begin to devour it with the utmost greed and delicacy. The trout fishers all grew to be fond of Fankle. They seemed to think that Fankle, and his blackness, brought them luck. (Fishermen are very superstitious.) Often they would turn round, where they stood thigh-deep in the loch, to see if that black cat was anywhere on the bank above. If Fankle was there, washing his face or chasing a butterfly, sure enough they would catch a decent fish within the next half-hour. They all had the greatest regard for Fankle, except Colonel Stick.
Colonel Stick waded ashore one day, tall and thin as a heron, and all he had in his bag was a quarter-pounder and a six-ouncer. The black cat approached, he coiled himself sinuously, and with deep affection, around the rubber ankles of Colonel Stick. The next thing Fankle knew, he was struggling in cold brackish loch water! The colonel had hurled him there, with one violent kick! There was not a more wretched cat than Fankle when finally he struggled ashore. He looked as if he had been dipped in a tub of slime. He shivered. He sneezed. The three swans on the loch looked at him with disdain.
Fankle dragged himself home, to be comforted and dried and warmed and fed by his dear friend Jenny.
***
Sometimes Fankle would walk all the way to the hotel. He was very popular in the hotel kitchen, where Annabel the cook and Alfie the kitchen boy would treat him to all the scraps from the plates of the rich over-fed trout fishers.
The first coolness of autumn was in the air â the island oatfields were full of ripe secret golden whispers â when a wonderful thing happened to Colonel Stick; he hooked the largest trout he had ever seen! It happened in the middle of the loch. On that particular afternoon Steve Smith, now an old man with a brown wrinkled face, was acting as the colonelâs ghillie â that is, he was rowing the gallant gentleman here and there about the loch, and seeing to the gear, and advising on this and that matter. âYou could do worse,â Steve had said, âthan have a try over beside that little islet with the ox-eye daisies growing on it. I saw two or three big ones jumping there ...â âVery well, my man,â the colonel had deigned to reply, ârow in that direction.â After a couple of casts, a huge underwater obstacle disrupted the splendid rhythm of the colonelâs fishing. âDamn it!â he cried. âBlast and damn! Itâs stuck in weed.â But then the obstacle made a powerful swerve and lunge. âHold on to it,â said Steve Smith.
But all he caught were little tiddlers, or half-pounders, or pounders. One marvellous day he caught a six-and-a-half-pounder. His thin face split with delight as he weighed that trout on the hotel scales. Mrs Stick and Constantine were pleased that day, too â it meant that the vinegar of him would be changed to honey, for one evening at least. But then the colonelâs eye caught the fish in the display case, and he scowled. Why should a tramp like Steve Smith have all the glory, while he, a gallant and honourable soldier, was condemned to fish, fish, fish, for little bits of tarnish? It was an unfair world.
***
Every evening that summer, as the colonel turned his back on the loch, he observed a black cat sitting on the grassy verge above. This black cat knew a thing or two, that much was obvious. As soon as a trout fisher waded ashore, there was this black cat waiting for him. As often as not the trout fisher would throw him a little fish, and then Fankle â for of course it was Fankle â would begin to devour it with the utmost greed and delicacy. The trout fishers all grew to be fond of Fankle. They seemed to think that Fankle, and his blackness, brought them luck. (Fishermen are very superstitious.) Often they would turn round, where they stood thigh-deep in the loch, to see if that black cat was anywhere on the bank above. If Fankle was there, washing his face or chasing a butterfly, sure enough they would catch a decent fish within the next half-hour. They all had the greatest regard for Fankle, except Colonel Stick.
Colonel Stick waded ashore one day, tall and thin as a heron, and all he had in his bag was a quarter-pounder and a six-ouncer. The black cat approached, he coiled himself sinuously, and with deep affection, around the rubber ankles of Colonel Stick. The next thing Fankle knew, he was struggling in cold brackish loch water! The colonel had hurled him there, with one violent kick! There was not a more wretched cat than Fankle when finally he struggled ashore. He looked as if he had been dipped in a tub of slime. He shivered. He sneezed. The three swans on the loch looked at him with disdain.
Fankle dragged himself home, to be comforted and dried and warmed and fed by his dear friend Jenny.
***
Sometimes Fankle would walk all the way to the hotel. He was very popular in the hotel kitchen, where Annabel the cook and Alfie the kitchen boy would treat him to all the scraps from the plates of the rich over-fed trout fishers.
The first coolness of autumn was in the air â the island oatfields were full of ripe secret golden whispers â when a wonderful thing happened to Colonel Stick; he hooked the largest trout he had ever seen! It happened in the middle of the loch. On that particular afternoon Steve Smith, now an old man with a brown wrinkled face, was acting as the colonelâs ghillie â that is, he was rowing the gallant gentleman here and there about the loch, and seeing to the gear, and advising on this and that matter. âYou could do worse,â Steve had said, âthan have a try over beside that little islet with the ox-eye daisies growing on it. I saw two or three big ones jumping there ...â âVery well, my man,â the colonel had deigned to reply, ârow in that direction.â After a couple of casts, a huge underwater obstacle disrupted the splendid rhythm of the colonelâs fishing. âDamn it!â he cried. âBlast and damn! Itâs stuck in weed.â But then the obstacle made a powerful swerve and lunge. âHold on to it,â said Steve Smith.
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