It is early dawn. A cool breeze, laden with the scent of apple blossoms, drifts through the window.
“God made the country and man made the town,” quotes the young man, as he descends to the hotel office.
“Ain’t used to gittin’ up at this hour, be ye?” grins the proprietary genius of the tavern.
“The habit, worthy host, has not fastened upon me seriously. This is usually my hour for going to bed. Hast aught to eat?”
“Breakfas’ all ready,” with a nod toward what is known as the dining-room.
Ashley shudders as he gazes at the spread. It is the usual Vermont breakfast—weak coffee, two kinds of pie on one plate, and a tier of doughnuts.
“Gad! This country is a howling wilderness of pie!” he mutters, surveying the repast in comical despair. “And to flash it on a man at 4 a.m.! It is simply barbarous!”
During his short vacation sojourn Mr. Ashley’s epicurean tastes have suffered a number of distinct shocks. But the ozone of the Green Mountains has contributed toward the generation of an appetite that needs little tempting to expend its energies. He makes a hearty breakfast on this particular morning, drowns the memories of the menu in a bowl of milk, and announces to Landlord Howe that he is ready to be directed to the best trout brook in central Vermont.
Mr. Howe surveys the eight-ounce bamboo with mild disdain. “Them fancy rigs ain’t much good on our brooks,” he declares. “Ketch more with a 75-cent rod.”
“I am rather inclined to agree with you on that point, most genial boniface; but it’s the only rod I happen to have with me, and I expect to return with some fish unless the myriad denizens of the brook which you enthusiastically described last night exist only in your imagination. By the way, what do you think of the bait?” passing over a flask.