“No, but the wind has a way of carrying seeds, Ethel,” said I, sarcastically. “It was the way of the wind with a seed that first suggested rural delivery, I have no doubt. Who is that talking to Minerva?”
It was a man who, driving by, had stopped and hailed her, and had now left his horse in the middle of the road and had gone over to her.
We could not hear what he said, but we saw her suddenly put her two hands behind her back as if to conceal her string of fish.
I hurried over to the man, followed by Ethel.
“Are those trout,” said the man, carelessly.
“No, they’re fishes,” said Minerva, in a tone of contempt for his ignorance.
“Yes, they’re trout?” said I. “Why do you want to know?”
There was something in his manner that I did not like.
“Who caught those trout,” said he.
I felt like saying, “I, said the fly with my hook and eye,” but I really did say “I caught them. Have you any objections?”