Dexter was just landing one when a sour-looking man in a shabby old paintless boat came by close to the shore, and looked at them searchingly. But he looked harder at the boat as he went by, turned in, as it seemed, and rowed right into the land.
“There must be a little river there,” Bob said. “We’ll look presently. I say, didn’t he stare!”
Almost as he spoke the man came out again into the tidal river and rowed away, went up some distance, and they had almost forgotten him when they saw him come slowly along, close inshore.
“Bob,” whispered Dexter, “he’s after us.”
To which Bob responded with a contemptuous—
“Yah!”
“Much sport?” said the man, passing abreast of their boat about half a dozen yards away, and keeping that by dipping his oars from time to time.
“Pretty fair,” said Bob, taking the rod. “’Bout a dozen.”
“What fish are they!” said Dexter eagerly, and he held up one.
“Smelts,” said the man, with a peculiar look. “Come fishing?”