No, they had
just come down to the creek and both they must know already.
"Ketching any?" called out the old man, cheerily.
"Only one," answered Hale with equal cheer. The old woman pushed
back her bonnet as he waded through the water towards them and he
saw that she was puffing a clay pipe. She looked at the fisherman
and his tackle with the naive wonder of a child, and then she said
in a commanding undertone.
"Go on, Billy."
"Now, ole Hon, I wish ye'd jes' wait a minute." Hale smiled. He
loved old people, and two kinder faces he had never seen--two
gentler voices he had never heard.
"I reckon you got the only green pyerch up hyeh," said the old
man, chuckling, "but thar's a sight of 'em down thar below my old
mill." Quietly the old woman hit the horse with a stripped branch
of elm and the old gray, with a switch of his tail, started.
"Wait a minute, Hon," he said again, appealingly, "won't ye?" but
calmly she hit the horse again and the old man called back over
his shoulder:
"You come on down to the mill an' I'll show ye whar you can ketch
a mess."
"All right," shouted Hale, holding back his laughter, and on they
went, the old man remonstrating in the kindliest way--the old
woman silently puffing her pipe and making no answer except to
flay gently the rump of the lazy old gray.
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