“You like boatin’ an’ fishin’, or you wouldn’t be willin’ to cough up ten a day to old Joe. All right. We’re all dead stuck on boatin’ an’ fishin’ an’ shootin’. An’ we’re fixed to do ’em all,” continued Hal.
Drawn along, not unwillingly, by his two companions, Bob was led down the first street to the right and, in the second block, the trio paused before a white picket fence in which was a tall gate. As this swung open, and Bob found himself on a shell path between walls of scented flowers, he saw ahead, a low, one-story house. On its little gallery opened four latticed windows.
“Is this your home?” whispered Bob, thrilled with the charm of the place, and turning to Tom.
“Paht o’ the time,” responded the southern boy. “Come in.”
[CHAPTER II]
AN IRREGULAR MEETING OF THE ANCLOTE FISHING CLUB
When Tom Allen swung open the door, Bob saw that he was in a home of refinement. On the walls, hung several old oil paintings; a wide, doorless opening led directly into a little parlor.
“Gran’mothah,” said Tom, with deference, addressing an aged lady sitting by a window, “this is Robert Balfour, of Chicago.”
As Bob bowed, Tom added: