"But your work?"
"They don't expect me. When I thought I was going to be sick, I telephoned the office, and they said all right, that they didn't need me. Now I've got eleven dollars, and there are three holidays of perfect weather before us: to-day, to-morrow, and Monday. What will we do? What must we do to be saved? Our matrimonial objects don't materialize till Monday night. In the meanwhile, what? Shall we go down to Chinatown—to the restaurant, or to the water-front again? Maybe the mate on the whaleback would invite us to lunch. Or," added Condy, his eye caught by a fresh-fish peddler who had just turned into the street, "we can go fishing."
"For oysters, perhaps."
But the idea had caught Condy's fancy.
"Blix!" he exclaimed, "let's go fishing."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Where DO people fish around here? Where there's water, I presume."
"No, is it possible?" she asked with deep concern. "I thought they fished in their back yards, or in their front parlors perhaps."
"Oh, you be quiet! you're all the time guying me," he answered. "Let me think—let me think," he went on, frowning heavily, scouring at his hair. Suddenly he slapped a thigh.
"Come on," he cried, "I've an idea!" He was already half-way down the steps, when Blix called him back.