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and decades and the fish grow to monstrous sizes。 the brutes that i was watching might be a hundred years old。 and not a soul in the world knew about them except me。 very likely it was twenty years since anyone had so much as looked at the pool； and probably even old hodges and mr farrel’s bailiff had forgotten its existence。
well； you can imagine what i felt。 after a bit i couldn’t even bear the tantalization of watching。 i hurried back to the other pool and got my fishing things together。 it was no use trying for those colossal brutes with the tackle i had。 they’d snap it as if it had been a hair。 and i couldn’t go on fishing any longer for the tiny bream。 the sight of the big carp had given me a feeling in my stomach almost as if i was going to be sick。 i got on to my bike and whizzed down the hill and home。 it was a wonderful secret for a boy to have。 there was the dark pool hidden away in the woods and the monstrous fish sailing round it—fish that had never been fished for and would grab the first bait you offered them。 it was only a question of getting hold of a line strong enough to hold them。 already i’d made all the arrangements。 i’d buy the tackle that would hold them if i had to steal the money out of the till。 somehow； god knew how； i’d get hold of half a crown and buy a length of silk salmon line and some thick gut or gimp and number 5 hooks； and e back with cheese and gentles and paste and mealworms and brandlings and grasshoppers and every mortal bait a carp might look at。 the very next saturday afternoon i’d e back and try for them。
but as it happened i never went back。 one never does go back。 i never stole the money out of the till or bought the bit of salmon line or had a try for those carp。 almost immediately afterwards something turned up to prevent me； but if it hadn’t been that it would have been something else。 it’s the way things happen。
i know； of course； that you think i’m exaggerating about the size of those fish。 you think； probably； that they were just medium… sized fish （a foot long； say） and that they’ve swollen gradually in my memory。 but it isn’t so。 people tell lies about the fish they’ve caught and still more about the fish that are hooked and get away； but i never caught any of these or even tried to catch them； and i’ve no motive for lying。 i tell you they were enormous。
。。
PART Ⅱ…6
and besides fishing there was reading。
i’ve exaggerated if i’ve given the impression that fishing was the only thing i cared about。 fishing certainly came first； but reading was a good second。 i must have been either ten or eleven when i started reading—reading voluntarily； i mean。 at that age it’s like discovering a new world。 i’m a considerable reader even now； in fact there aren’t many weeks in which i don’t get through a couple of novels。 i’m what you might call the typical boots library subscriber； i always fall for the best…seller of the moment （the good panions； bengal lancer； hatter’s castle—i fell for every one of them）； and i’ve been a member of the left book club for a year or more。 and in 1918； when i was twenty…five； i had a sort of debauch of reading that made a certain difference to my outlook。 but nothing is ever like those first years when you suddenly discover that you can open a penny weekly paper and plunge straight into thieves’ kitchens and chinese opium dens and polynesian islands and the forests of brazil。
it was from when i was eleven to when i was about sixteen that i got my biggest kick out of reading。 at first it was always the boys’ penny weeklies—little thin papers with vile print and an illustration in three colours on the cover—and a bit later it was books。 sherlock holmes； dr nikola； the iron pirate； dracula； raffles。 and nat gould and ranger gull and a chap whose name i forget who wrote boxing stories almost as rapidly as nat gould wrote racing ones。 i suppose if my parents had been a little better educated i’d have had ‘good’ books shoved down my throat； dickens and thackeray and so forth； and in fact they did drive us through quentin durward at school and uncle ezekiel sometimes tried to incite me to read ruskin and carlyle。 but there were practically no books in our house。 father had never read a book in his life； except the bible and smiles’s self help； and i didn’t of my own accord read a ‘good’ book till much later。 i’m not sorry it happened that way。 i read the things i wanted to read； and i got more out of them than i ever got out of the stuff they taught me at school。
the old penny dreadfuls were already going out when i was a kid； and i can barely remember them； but there was a regular line of boys’ weeklies； some of which still exist。 the buffalo bill stories have gone out； i think； and nat gould probably isn’t read any longer； but nick carter and sexton blake seem to be still the same as ever。 the gem and the magnet； if i’m remembering rightly； started about 1905。 the b。o。p。 was still rather pi in those days； but chums； which i think must have started about 1903； was splendid。 then there was an encyclopedia—i don’t remember its exact name—which was issued in penny numbers。 it never seemed quite worth buying； but a boy at school used to give away back numbers sometimes。 if i now know the length of the mississippi or the difference between an octopus and a cuttle…fish or the exact position of bell…metal； that’s where i learned it from。
joe never read。 he was one of those boys who can go through years of schooling and at the end of it are unable to read ten lines consecutively。 the sight of print made him feel sick。 i’ve seen him pick up one of my numbers of chums； read a paragraph or two and then turn away with just the same movement of disgust as a horse when it smells stale hay。 he tried to kick me out of reading； but mother and father； who had decided that i was ‘the clever one’； backed me up。 they were rather proud that i showed a taste for ‘book…learning’； as they called it。 but it was typical of both of them that they were vaguely upset by my reading things like chums and the union jack； thought that i ought to read something ‘improving’ but didn’t know enough about books to be sure which books were ‘improving’。 finally mother got hold of a second…hand copy of foxe’s book of martyrs； which i didn’t read； though the illustrations weren’t half bad。
all through the winter of 1905 i spent a penny on chums every week。 i was following up their serial story； ‘donovan the dauntless’。 donovan the dauntless was an explorer who was employed by an american millionaire to fetch incredible things from various corners of the earth。 sometimes it was diamonds the size of golf balls from the craters of volcanoes in africa； sometimes it was petrified mammoths’ tusks from the frozen forests of siberia； sometimes it was buried inca treasures from the lost cities of peru。 donovan went on a new journey every week； and he always made good。 my favourite place for reading was the loft behind the yard。 except when father was getting out fresh sacks of grain it was the quietest place in the house。 there were huge piles of sacks to lie on； and a sort of plastery smell mixed up with the smell