“I’m going along this road,” was the answer, and the lad pointed to the highway bordering the track. “I’m taking this milk to the dairy,” he added. “Ye can ride as far as I go.”
“Then I guess I will. I want to get to where the railroad crosses the river, about two miles back.”
“That’s the Wickatunk creek; that ain’t no river,” remarked the young milkman, “Goin’ fishin’ in it?”
“Well, yes, you might call it that.”
“There ain’t no fish in it, around here. About three miles down is a good place, though.”
“I don’t expect to catch any fish,” said Jack, with a smile.
“Ye don’t? Then what in Tunket be ye goin’ fishin’ fer?”
“My dress-suit case.”
The boy, who had halted his horse, looked at Jack sharply. Evidently he thought the stranger was not quite sound in his mind.
“That’s right,” went on our hero, with a smile. “My suit case toppled into the river as I was riding over it in a freight car. I’m going back to see if I can’t fish it out.”