“Well! You’re a great fisherman! And with that water right there beside you! Lord!”
“With the arbutus right here beside me! Lord!”
“But the arbutus would wait.”
“But the trout would wait. They’re waiting for you now, don’t you hear them? Go and fish there!”
“No. That’s your pool.” Jonathan has a way of bestowing a trout-pool on me as if it were a bouquet. To refuse its opportunities is almost like throwing his flowers back in his face.
“Well—of course it’s a beautiful pool—”
“Best on the brook,” murmured Jonathan.
“But, truly, I’d enjoy it just as much to have you fish it.”
“Nobody can fish it now for a while. I thought you’d be there, of course, and I came stamping along down, close by the bank. They wouldn’t bite now—not for half an hour, anyway.”
“Well, then, that’s just right. We’ll go on up the hillside for half an hour, and then come back and fish it. Set your rod up against the bayberry here, and come along—look there! you’re almost stepping on some!”