As Lieutenant Purcell and Morey clambered out on the bank the military man began laughing heartily.
“I suppose they are a pretty wide fit,” remarked Morey holding out Marsh Green’s loosely hanging trousers with one hand.
“I was laughing at my mistake in thinking you were a ‘pot’ fisher,” explained the soldier. “But I’d known if I had seen your rod—it’s a beauty.”
Morey handed Lieutenant Purcell his father’s old split bamboo, silver ferruled, and colored a rich brown from long use.
“Since we caused you to lose your own rod I want you to take mine,” said Morey promptly. “It is a little heavy and old-fashioned but it has landed many a fine fish. It was my father’s.”
“Your father is dead?”
“Yes sir. My mother lives—Aspley Place is our home.”
“Well, I want to shake hands with you, sir, and to say again I am heartily sorry I lost my head. Losing my rod serves me right. I couldn’t think of taking yours. It’s a beauty,” he added, taking the rod in his hands.
“But I want you to,” exclaimed Morey. “My father was a sportsman. He loved his horse, rod and gun. I don’t know what Amos meant. I reckon it’s the first time a trout was ever taken out of Aspley Creek in a net. I’ll feel better if you’ll take the rod. If you don’t,” he added, his eyes snapping, “I’ll take it and break it over that nigger’s back.”
Amos, skulking within earshot—the rock still in his hand—hurried away among the pines.