"Beautiful country around here."
"Sure is. I like it best in the summertime."
"Do much fishing?"
He shrugged. "Some. I'm generally pretty busy."
I looked out through the window at the bus where the old man was cranking the gas pump counting the profits on ten gallons of gas. The bus itself was battered and scarred, the red and yellow paint flaking off the sides. It was filled with adults—most of them young—and a sprinkling of kids.
"Some kind of outing?"
He laughed. "That's right. The Young People's League from the Methodist Church in Winook."
"Hard group to keep entertained, huh?"
He made a face and said, "You know how it goes."
The old man came back from the pump. "That's two seventy-six, son. Took a little over ten."