God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen

"Well, the man's a complete ass, of course. But he was right the first time. No more room for you here. No more room for me."

What about Holmes, then, I inquired. Would he go home?

"Oh, I shall die in due course," he said. An adjustment of the wrist was made. "Always time enough for that," he added. "Now this"—a sudden convulsion from the trout—"fish here. Shall it be thumbs up or down?"

I said he'd make a fine wall fish. Personally, I like to keep my very large trout, just one every now and then. They come so infrequently that I tend to be piggish when they do. No, in my net, that trout would last seconds only.

"It being Christmas," said Holmes, "I choose not to play God."

In the middle of Africa, on a Christmas morning, hard into a big trout...an eavesdropper would have thought this conversation ludicrous. But no one was there. Just me. And there seemed nothing odd about it at all.

The trout was finished. Holmes waded out into the stream, his deerstalker as firmly in place as if it grew there, and tailed the trout. It was enormous.

"I'll bet he goes 24 inches," I said. I rummaged in my vest for a tape measure.

"No," said Holmes. "Don't touch him."

The trout lay in the shallows, exhausted. Its gills heaved, pulsed. Holmes held him in the water, sliding his hand softly under the belly. With a quick motion he unhooked his nymph. Then he gingerly ushered the brown back to deep water. He held it there, the great hooked-jaw head upstream, until it swam from his hands, rolled to right itself and disappeared downstream. "They have a marvelous feel to them, don't they?" He seemed to suffix every sentence with a question. I didn't know how they felt. I knew how I felt about such a fish. I felt sick.