“I insist that the fault was all mine. But I’ll compromise. I am stationed near Linden, some miles from here, on special duty. It was a long drive over here and a man will be waiting for me some miles down the stream. I’d like to fish the creek down to my rendezvous. If you lend me your rod I’ll send it to you tomorrow.”
“At least,” said Morey, giving ready assent, “you will consider yourself as having at all times, for yourself and friends, the use of the creek. And when you are nearby,” he continued, pointing among the trees toward the west, “my mother will be glad to have you call at our home. A real fisherman will always find a welcome there. I’ve got better pants at home,” laughed Morey.
The soldier shrugged his shoulders and laughed in turn. Then he lifted the lid of Morey’s broken creel and saw the two small trout. In turn he exposed his own catch—seven beautiful fish, one weighing at least a pound and a quarter. Before Morey could stop him the lieutenant had dumped his own string into the boy’s basket.
“With my compliments to your mother, my boy.”
The pride of the Marshalls rose in the water-soaked, ragged boy’s heart.
“On one condition, sir; that you will take dinner with us this evening.”
The man hesitated.
“Not today, thank you. I’m deuced glad to meet a son of one of our old families—I’m a Virginian myself—but, not today.”
“You are stationed at Linden, you say?”
“For a time. I may leave any day. If I do I hope we may meet again. Won’t you take my card?”