“You are a fellow! Why, if I had a chance like you have, I should be always at it.”
“I say, what did you say your name was?”
“Bob Dimsted—Bob,” said the fisher, throwing in again. “I know what yours is. You come out of the workus.”
“Yes,” said Dexter sadly, as he wondered whether he did not wish he was there now. “I came out of the workus—workhouse,” he added, as he remembered one of Helen’s teachings.
“Why don’t you get your rod some day, and a basket of something to eat, and come right up the river with me, fishing? There’s whackers up there.”
“I should like to,” said Dexter thoughtfully, for the idea of the fishing seemed to drive away the troubles from which he suffered.
“Well, come then. I’d go any day, only you must let me have all you caught.”
“All?” said Dexter, as he began to think of trophies.
“Yes. As I showed you the place where they’re caught, I should want to take them home.”
“All right,” said Dexter. “You could have them.”