However, as I said somewhere back in my narrative, we made ready for work. We looked around for Jim Buzzard, and found him sitting in the bow of the boat, his legs sprawled out, his head dropped on his chin, his ragged hat cocked on one side, fast asleep. There was an ease and self-abandonment about his appearance that were really beautiful. Jim could sleep anywhere—some people can't. He was never nervous. He never had any spasms about something that could never occur. He had no notes falling due—no crops in the ground—no merchandise on his hand—no property, except the little he carried on his back, and that he didn't really own; it was given to him—he was no candidate for office, and didn't even know or care who was President—all administrations were alike to him, for all had treated him well. He never flew into a passion because some persons slandered him, because he had no character to injure.
"Hallo, Jim!" I screamed, with my mouth to his ear, "the boat is sinking."
He gaped, and groaned, and stretched a few times, and finally opened his eyes, and adjusted his hat, and looking up at me, "Let her sink, then," he replied; "we can get-er up agin."
"Stir around! stir around, Jim!" I exclaimed; "the fish are waiting for our bait; out with your pole."
He said, "he was goin' overboard arter fresh-water clams—kase they were good with salt, and anybody could eat 'em;" and rolling up his breeches, over he went, and moving away down near a sandy beach, he commenced digging his clams with his feet, and piling them up on shore by his side.
Venison and myself dashed our lines overboard. I watched every movement of the old hunter. He went through as many ceremonies as a magician working a charm. His "minnys" (minnows), as he called them, were hooked tenderly at a particular place in the back, so that they might shoot around in the water, without dying in the effort; his hook was pointed in a certain direction, so as to catch at the first bite; he then spit upon the bait, and swinging the line a few times in circles, he threw it far out in the stream.
"That'll bring a bass, pickerel, or something," said he, as it struck the water.
Soon the pole bent, and Venison sprang upon it.
"Pull him out!" exclaimed I.
"Don't never hurry big fish," replied he; "let him play round a little; he'll grow weak byme-by, and come right along into the boat;" and accordingly, Venison "let him play;" he managed the fish with all that refinement in the art that sportsmen know so well how to appreciate and enjoy. Sometimes it raced far up the stream, then far down; and once, as the line brought it up on a downward trip, it bounded into the air, and turned two or three summersets that shook the silver drops of water from its fins. After a while, it became exhausted, and Venison slowly drew him into the boat, all breathless and panting; a famous pickerel, four feet long and "well proportioned."