"Dick," I would say, whilst affixing a new fly, "this is very lazy work."
"Thet's so," he would respond, disposing the steering pole under his arm whilst he bit a fresh quid off the Dutchman's "chunk." And after chewing the quid and the reflection with equal gusto for some moments in silence, he would add: "Thet's what I like about it."
The happy-go-lucky manner in which the raft drifted on to boulders, and hung there whilst we caught fish until it drifted off again, the perfect ease of the motion, the beauty of the river scenery, the excellence of the sport, the health, the harmony, and simplicity of it all, rendered these sunny voyages extremely delightful.
B. followed the gentle art on horseback. Furnished with strong tackle, he used to ride into the water, hook his fish, put the rod over his shoulder, and ride ashore again. Then he would shout to the infamous Bud to come and take the fish off. Bud generally took himself off instead, and after a while the fish would do likewise. As a rule it happened that, when the fish was there, the boy was not, and when the boy came the fish had gone. Considered under the influence of daily contact with Bud, infanticide came to appear an admirable institution; but fortunately nothing disturbed B.'s equanimity.
Dick's temperament was not so well regulated. Seeing him one day engaged in playing an unusually good fish, the boy ran up from behind shouting: "Oh, Dick! get on your meule, and ride him out."
Failing to catch the gist of the remark, Dick turned to see what was wanted of him and lost the fish. It is needless to transcribe his remonstrance; powerful as it was, however, it had no effect upon the imperturbable infant.
"Wall," he persisted with bewitching gaiety, as he moved away again; "ef ye'd only got on yer meule, yer might a' fetched him out."
Dick was still too furious to be reported; by degrees, however, he subsided into a grumble. "Get on my meule and pull him out! Get on my meule! ——! I only wish I had him glued on that meule for a fortnight, and me driving it on a rough trail."
"I guess I'd better kill him," said old Brown, very gently. He had walked across from the camp fire to watch the sport, and was now absently stropping a big meat-knife on his thigh, "he'll do better, maybe, in Abraham's bosom."
"The other bosomites couldn't stand him," said Dick hopelessly; "they'd fire him out, sure! Abe'd yank him out of that himself."