The following is a fair specimen of a story of the class I have described:
“He was a real sportsman, just from the city, and he had come down into the country to show the benighted inhabitants how to catch fish. He had a new patent rod in his right hand and a brand-new basket over his left shoulder. In his coat-tail pocket he carried a silver flask, and in his breast-pocket a big wallet filled with all the latest devices in newfangled flies. He walked down the road with the air of a man who had come to catch fish and knew just how to do it.
“It was growing dark when he returned to the hotel, wet, muddy, and weary, and sadly laid aside his implements of sport.
“‘Fish don’t bite in this blawsted country, yer know,’ was his reply to the landlord’s cheery inquiry, ‘What luck?’
“And just at this moment who should come along but old Bill Simons’s sandy-haired, freckle-faced boy Jim, with his birch-pole over his shoulder, and a fine string of the speckled beauties in his brown paw.
“‘Good Gawd!’ exclaimed the dude, ‘how did you catch those, me boy?’
“‘Hook ’n’ line, yer fool! How d’yer s’pose?’ was Jim’s answer, as he pulled a handful of angleworms, the last of his bait, from his pocket, and threw them out of the window.”