“Oh, Tad,” gasped the little girl again, in awed admiration, “that's swearing.”
But Tad did not mind. “There's Hants Corby,” he exclaimed; “he's going to fish, too.”
Hants Corby floated down in his old boat, dropped anchor opposite the children, and grinned sociably.
“He daren't touch his boat to-day,” he said in a husky whisper. “He'll raise jinks in a minute. You wait.”
“Fishes is devils on Sunday, aren't they, Hants?”
“Trout,” returned Hants, decisively, “is devils any time.”
Both Tad Armitage and Hants Corby ought to have known that the Leather Hermit sometimes went up the Cattle Ridge on Sundays to wrestle with an angel, like Jacob, who had his thigh broken. We knew that much in Hagar—and it shows what comes of living in Preston Plains instead of Hagar.
Hants Corby motioned with his thumb toward the Hermit's hut.
“Him,” he remarked, “he don't let folks alone. He wants folks to let him alone particular. That ain't reasonable.”
“Father says he's a fernatic,” ventured Tad. “What's a fernatic, Hants?”