"Hello, Musq'oosis!" began Joe facetiously. "Fine weather for old bones, eh?"
"Ver' good," replied Musq'oosis blandly. The old man had no great liking for this burly youth with the comely, self-indulgent face, nor did he relish his style of address; however, being a philosopher and a gentleman, this did not appear in his face. "Sit down," he added hospitably.
Musq'oosis was making artificial flies against the opening of the trout season next month. With bits of feather, hair, and thread he was turning out wonderfully lifelike specimens—not according to the conventional varieties, but as a result of his own half-century's experience on neighbouring streams. A row of the completed product was stuck in a smooth stick, awaiting possible customers.
"Out of sight!" said Joe, examining them.
"I t'ink maybe sell some this year," observed Musq'oosis. "Plenty new men come."
"How much?" asked Joe.
"Four bits."
"I'll take a couple. There's a good stream beside my place."
"Stick 'em in your hat."