“Hullo, Tom!” I returned. “Through work for the day?”
“Yes.”
“How’s the catch?”
“Pretty poor, Rube. Too windy for pickerel,” returned Tom, as he arose and knocked some ashes from the top of his pipe-bowl.
“I suppose it is.”
“Where have you been?” he went on, coming to where I was tying up.
“Over to Bayport with a load of middlings.”
“That so? Thought I see you coming up the lake.”
“I’ve been down looking for a sloop that capsized,” I returned. “Did you see anything of her?”