Stan coloured and laughed.
“Well, uncle,” he said, “the men were so excited that I don’t see that I, a boy, need mind owning how I felt. It was something like what one used to experience when one had a present years and years ago.”
“What!—ready to jump for joy, Stan?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“I know the feeling,” said Uncle Jeff, chuckling. “I remember just as well as if it was yesterday. Ready to jump for joy; just, too, when I was so weak from some fever that if I had been out of bed my legs wouldn’t have borne me, let alone jumped. I remember it was fine summer weather, and my father had come down from London and brought me a new fishing-rod—a perfect marvel to my young eyes—reddish-yellow bamboo, with brass ferrules, and having one joint fitting beautifully into the other so as to form a walking-stick; and in addition, just as he had brought them and had them bundled up together in a parcel, there was quite a heap of treasures tangled up together on the big sheet of paper spread out upon the white counterpane, while I sat up with two pillows to support my weak back. Oh, it was grand!
“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled the great stalwart fellow, with his eyes lighting up. “Didn’t I have the window opened so that I could pull joint out from joint and put them together, making the rod grow till I sat holding it out through the drawn-up sash. All the time I was seeing in imagination the great pond sheltered by the willows where the water-lilies grew and the carp and tench sailed about underneath, every now and then lifting a broad dark-green leaf or thrusting a stem aside, with the glistening beetles gliding about on the surface as if they were playing at engine-turning and describing beautiful geometric figures as the big dragon-flies rustled their gauzy wings and darted here and there in chase of flies.
“Then, too, I remember that I cried out against the window being shut, because three parts of my rod stood out in the open while I was busy examining a hank of Indian twist, beautiful steel-blue hooks of all sizes, from tiny ones on gut to big, quaintly shaped large ones, loose, but with eyes for attachment to the whipcord-like eel-line.”
Uncle Jeff stopped short and turned with a droll look at his nephew.
“Here, Stan,” he said, “you had better stop me or I shall go on with my rigmarole about that line with the blue-and-white cork float and the other with a quill, besides the one with the sharp-pointed porcupine which stuck through the bedclothes into my leg. Then there was the box of split shot with the lid which stuck, and when I got it off the contents jumped out, to go everywhere, over the bed, into it, under it, rattling between the jug and basin, and had to be hunted out. Then there was that lovely landing-net that was so rarely required for a big fish, but did splendidly to catch butterflies. And the fishing-creel, too, and—Here, Blunt, my dear fellow, where’s your box of Manilla cigars?—Stan, get me a light. I must put something in my mouth or I shall begin to tell you both about that little pike that I didn’t catch and that big carp that I did—I mean the one that seemed to my boyish eyes as if he wore a suit of armour made of young half-sovereigns overlapping one another from tail to head. Ah, Stan!” cried Uncle Jeff, “you’re a lucky young dog to be a boy, though you don’t know it, and never will till you grow up to be a man.”
“Why, uncle,” cried Stan, “haven’t I just had to play at being a man and handle the rifle?”