"We're going over to Limestone creek, fishing," said Adrian. "George Bennett was there yesterday and got fifteen chub."
"Got any bait?" asked Mr. Kimball.
"Going to dig some right away," replied Adrian, trying to make short work of the meal. Roger, too, was busy with the victuals.
"Now I don't know 'bout this," began Mr. Kimball with a grave air, in contrast to his former jolly tone. "Roger didn't come out here t' start right in 'n' tramp eight er ten miles, 'n' git all tired out. His mother 'n' father wants him t' rest up, 'n' git lots a' fresh air. Now, Ade, I don't know's I ought t' let you two go. What d' ye say, Roger?"
"I don't feel at all tired," answered the boy. "I am not sure I could walk eight miles, but—"
"It's less than two miles there, pop," broke in Adrian, "and, say, you need n't worry, but I'll take care of Roger. We'll walk slow."
"I guess I can tramp as far as the creek," put in Roger, feeling a little nettled that his physical ability should so often come up for discussion.
"Wa'al, all right," assented Mr. Kimball. "It's a nice day, 'n' I guess it won't hurt ye none. Look out ye don't fall in, that's all. It's deep near th' hole where th' best fishin' is."
"We'll be careful," promised Adrian.
Breakfast over Adrian got out the fishing tackle and a spade with which to dig the worms for bait. Roger was provided with a bamboo pole and the necessary line, hooks, and sinkers. Then, when Adrian announced, after spading a good-sized patch of the barnyard up, that they had bait enough in the tin can, the two boys shouldered their poles and started off.