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He kept a prim silence. It was not for him to comment on the shortcomings of pike fishing on the wrong side of the Sligo border.
I tried to carry it off as best I could. "Not so good as yesterday," I told them that evening. "More fish, but the biggest was 25."
The shoulders of the clientele, which had relaxed over pints of black stout at my first words, stiffened again. That evening I sat through the news in Irish, then a vintage Spencer Tracy movie, before retiring early for the night.
I was up early in the morning, too, all packed and ready. When I went down to breakfast Jimmy Hogg was waiting. He had a resigned look about him. "I had your bill made out early," he said. "I thought you might be wanting to leave."
I told him truthfully that I had never eaten finer T-bone steaks than those supplied in his restaurant. Somehow that didn't seem enough.
"I suppose you'll be moving across to Drumshanbo now," he said.
Only for one day, I assured him. The Canada geese had just started to fly into Allen. From Saturday on Pat would be out shooting.
"The pike are mere in Templehouse," Jimmy said.
"It's just that the water's colored," I told him.
"Big ones," said Jimmy.