"They're all right after they're cooked," shuddered Marjory, that afternoon, when Mr. Black brought in a pretty string of fish, cleaned and ready to fry, "but I couldn't touch a raw one—ugh!"
"Neither could I," said Henrietta, "but Anthony Fitz-Hubert could—see, he's just crazy for one this minute."
"Here's one with his name on it," said Mr. Black, presenting the little cat with a small specimen. "That one is under-sized, so it wouldn't do for us to be caught with it; but they couldn't arrest or fine Anthony, because he's too active and too poor. How would you girls like to try fishing?"
"We'd like it," responded Henrietta. "Once, when I was very small, I went fishing in Scotland, in a little rushing river; and once, in France, a little peasant boy let me hold his rod for a few minutes."
"Well," promised Mr. Black, "some day I'll take you all fishing. After you've caught a trout or two you won't mind handling them. But just now I can't afford to be reckless with the bait—we'll get a bigger supply next time."
"I've heard it said," laughed Mrs. Crane, "that there's a stingy streak in everybody, if you know just where to look for it; we've found yours, Peter; it's fish-worms."
"Well, they're mighty scarce in this part of the country. I dug for nearly an hour along the river bank and found only one. I'll send word to Martin, next time, and have him dig a pailful in our garden."
"He'll dig up everything else, too," sighed Mrs. Crane, "but never mind. But that reminds me of Dave. Marjory, I wish you and Henrietta would see if that rascal has slipped in by some back way to his wigwam. I declare I never thought that I'd want to set eyes on that homely half-breed, but I'd give a dollar, this very minute, to see him."