“Baiting the line.”
No “sir” this time, but the new-comer’s curiosity was aroused, and he said eagerly:
“Where’s your rod?”
“Rod!” said Will, looking up once more, half puzzled. “Rod! Oh, you mean fishing-rod, do you?”
“Of course—” stupid the stranger was about to say, but he refrained. “You don’t suppose I mean birch rod, do you?”
“No,” said Will, and he went on baiting his hooks. “We don’t use fishing-rods.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Why don’t we!” said Will, with the dimples getting a little deeper on either side of his mouth. “Why, because this line’s about quarter of a mile long, and it would want a rod as long, and we couldn’t use it.”
“Hor—hor—hor!” laughed Josh, letting his head go down between his knees, and so disgusting the stranger that he turned sharply upon his heel and strutted off, swinging a black cane with a silver top and silk tassels to and fro, and then stopping in a very nonchalant manner to take out a silver hunting watch and look at the time, at the same moment taking care that Will should have a good view of the watch, and feel envious if enviously inclined.
He walked along the pier to the very end, and Josh went on slowly turning the staff, while Will kept baiting his hooks.