“I’m really sorry, my boy, that I struck you. I’m a great lover of this sport and I lost my head. I apologize to you. And to you,” he added, turning to Morey.
Morey turned again to Amos.
“Where did you get that trout, Amos?”
“Cross my ha’t, Marse Morey, I reckon dat fish done swum in ma’ pocket. Trouts is cute fishes.”
Morey picked up Amos’ seine, still tangled among the rocks, and grasping the rotten sticks to which it was attached, he broke them over his knee. Then he pointed to the bank and Amos crawled dejectedly ashore.
“My name is Purcell, Lieutenant Purcell, of the United States Army,” said the stranger.
“I am glad to know you,” replied Morey reaching out his hand. “I am fond of fishing myself.”