"I thought you'd gone to see Buster Trevelyan?"
"I did see him. He helped me dig worms."
Joe felt that somehow he must be a very shallow and easily led person. His daughter had suggested that he go fishing. His wife had told him the same thing, though she had not needed to speak. Now his son appeared with fishing tackle and bait. Joe hesitated, and Emma urged,
"Go ahead. You won't get any work done today anyhow and fishing will be good for you."
"Well, we might get a mess of fish."
He left the house, followed by the jubilant Tad, who had two poles with lines, floats, and hooks attached to them slung over his shoulder and a hollow branch containing worms in his hand. Mike tagged amiably along, bristled hopefully when a neighbor's dog crossed Pete Domley's pasture, and relaxed sadly when the dog kept on going. Mike didn't care what he fought, or where or when, as long as he could fight, and Joe looked at his son's dog with a new eye. Mike had never been an asset on the farm, but he might be one on the Oregon Trail.
Tad led the way to a long, still pool bordered by sycamores and willows. Joe took his pole, baited, cast, and watched his bobber float with the gentle current. He eyed a school of minnows that were swimming in the shoals and looked again at his bobber. The minnows in the shallow edges of the pool were quiet, therefore nothing had been chasing them for a while and it was Joe's guess that the fish wouldn't bite well today. If the bass were feeding, the minnows would be more nervous and alert. Joe asked his son a question that had been on his mind.
"How'd you know I'd go fishing this afternoon?"
"If we're goin' to Oregon, you sure wouldn't be workin' the fields."
"Is that the only reason you knew?"