They found the Morgan brothers at home, and apparently glad to receive company. A large brindle dog was much less hospitable, and during the boys’ stay he and Bob kept up a constant exchange of sneers and threats. In fact, a pitched battle was only narrowly avoided—partly through the efforts of the Morgans, and partly because Bob would not stir from between Ned’s legs.
The atmosphere about the shanty was quite fishy, and fish scales were scattered everywhere. There also was another, much stronger odor, at which the three newcomers wrinkled their noses in disgust.
Joe was occupying a bench, puffing at his pipe; and sitting on a second bench, with a board across his lap, Sam, likewise puffing, was cutting into small square cakes what seemed to be a mass of dough.
“Howdy,” said the boys—Ned holding Bob by the collar.
The two men nodded gravely, and Joe, removing his pipe to knock out the ashes, remarked:
“Got your lines set all right? See you fussin’ ’long the logs a bit ago.”
“Yes, we thought we’d try a couple, just for fun,” responded Ned. “Do you think the raft is a good place?”
“W-w-well, I shouldn’t wonder but what it is, for a short line,” said Joe, filling his pipe.
“Will we get any fish, Joe?” queried Hal.
“Mebbe,” said Joe. “A few cats, like as not.”