“That’s a trout. You don’t find many of ’em any more. They been all fished out. Want it? I c’n find some more when I want ’em.”
“Oh, thank you, I couldn’t take your fish,” said Aunt Mary with a smile, “But I’ve enjoyed seeing you catch it. You better take it home to your mother.”
The boy’s head bowed a little lower and he said in a low, gruff voice:
“Haven’t got any mother. She’s dead. They don’t want to bother with fish at home. D’you like me to cook it for you? They’re awful good cooked outdoors like this right on the coals.”
He began to gather sticks and twigs together, and placed them in a little pile.
“Well, that certainly would be wonderful,” said Aunt Mary smiling, “Then you can take lunch with us. We always bring along enough for a guest—”
The boy looked up wistfully and grinned, and then was off for more sticks.
In a little clearing he built a fire while the little girl watched him, and put his fish to cook, and then they spread out the lunch on a big white cloth on a rock the boy showed them, and they had a great laugh over the bugs and ants that kept coming to dinner with them.
The boy ate lunch with them, carving his fish proudly with a big jackknife and serving the biggest portions to his guests, saying he didn’t care for fish anyhow, he could get it whenever he wanted it. But he ate the sandwiches and little pies and cakes hungrily, and watched the little girl with shy, furtive glances.
Afterwards he washed the dishes for them in the brook and packed them back in the basket, then curled down at Aunt Mary’s feet while she went on reading.