“What luck?” he called.
“Good luck! I’ve found lots. Come up!”
He took a few steps up toward me, so that conversation could drop from shouting to speaking levels. “How many did you get?” he asked.
“How many?… Oh … why … Oh, I got one up there where you showed me—under the rock, you know.”
“Good one?”
“Eight inches. He’s down there by the bars.”
“Good! And what about the bend?”
“The bend? Oh, I didn’t fish there—look at these! Aren’t they beauties?” I came down the hill to hold my open box up to his face. But my casual word almost effaced the scent of the flowers.
“Ah—yes—delicious—didn’t fish there? Why not? Did they see you?”
“Who? The trout? I don’t know. But I saw this. And I just had to pick it.”