“Great day for fishing,” I insisted.
The team arrived, a lively pair of Morgan mares. Uncle Eb came out
of the house in rubber boots, with his overcoat upon his arm.
“I'm 'fraid you better not go,” said Elizabeth Brower from the door-step, with a look of anxiety, and now the trembling of his hands made me almost regret that I had tempted him.
“See here,” said Uncle Eb, firmly, as he turned to my mother. “He's picked on me 'til I can't stan' it any longer. Ye couldn't keep me out o' that buggy with a gun.”
I helped him in and took my place at his side, and away we went a pace of twelve miles to the hour, through town, across the flat, and up the stairway of the hills. We passed the old Hosper homestead.
“What's become of the deacon?” I asked.