The older man sat on the ground, his back against the trunk of a
tree that grew so near to the edge that it seemed on the point of
toppling over to shatter the smooth, green mirror below. Some of its
sturdy exposed roots reached down from the bank into the water,
where they caught and held the drift from upstream,--reeds and
twigs and matted grass,--a dirty, sickly mass that swished lazily
on the flank of the slow-moving current.
The water here in the shade was deep and clear and limpid, contrasting
sharply with the steel-white surface out beyond.
The young man occupied a decrepit camp stool, placed conveniently
against the trunk of another tree hard by. A discarded bamboo rod
lay beside him on the bank, the hook and line hopelessly tangled
in the drift below. He smoked cigarettes.
His companion held a well-chewed black cigar in the vise-like corner
of his mouth. His hook and line were far out in the placid water,
an ordinary cork serving as a "bob" from which his dreary, unwavering
gaze seldom shifted.
"I guess they're through bitin' for today," he remarked, after a
long unbroken silence.
"How many have we got?" inquired the other languidly.
"Between us we've got twenty-four. That's a fair-sized mess. Sunfish
don't make much of a showing unless you get a barrel of 'em."
"Good eating though," mused the young man.
"Fried in butter," supplemented the other.
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