Men like ourselves
in responsible positions learn to organize things easily.
In fact Popley says it is that faculty that has put us
where we are. So the plan simply was that Frank Rolls
should come along at five o'clock and blow his whistle
in front of our places, and at that signal each man would
come down to his wharf with his rod and kit and so we'd
be off to the shoal without a moment's delay.
The weather we ruled out. It was decided that even if it
rained that made no difference. Kernin said that fish
bite better in the rain. And everybody agreed that man
with a couple of snorts in him need have no fear of a
little rain water.
So we parted, all keen on the enterprise. Nor do I think
even now that there was anything faulty or imperfect in
that party as we planned it.
I heard Frank Rolls blowing his infernal whistle opposite
my summer cottage at some ghastly hour in the morning.
Even without getting out of bed, I could see from the
window that it was no day for fishing. No, not raining
exactly. I don't mean that, but one of those peculiar
days--I don't mean _wind_--there was no wind, but a sort
of feeling in the air that showed anybody who understands
bass fishing that it was a perfectly rotten day for going
out.
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