'Dick, here's a good one. We oughtn't to keep a dog at all because we are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate yesterday?'
'Let me guess. The joint?'
'Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook's meat tickets.'
They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, 'That dog will be the death of me.' his father shivers. Dick does not notice this; his eyes have drawn him to the fishing-rods.
'Hullo!'
'Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.'
'Here's the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I got the seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren't there. That was a day. It was really only six and three-quarters. I put a stone in its mouth the second time we weighed it!'
'You loved fishing, Dick.'
'Didn't I? Why weren't you oftener with me? I'll tell you a funny thing, When I went a soldiering I used to pray—just standing up, you know—that I shouldn't lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward for casting.' He cogitates as he returns to the ingle-nook. 'Somehow I never thought I should be killed. Lots of fellows thought that about themselves, but I never did. It was quite a surprise to me.'
'Oh, Dick!'