"Pretty fair," the lawyer answered, exhibiting his treasures.
"Perch, and chub, and shiners, and them good-for-nawthun tag ends of all creation, suckers."
"Is that what they are?" asked the disappointed fisherman, holding up the spoil of Wilkinson's rod.
"That's jest what they are, flabby, bony, white-livered, or'nary suckers. Niggers and Injuns won't touch 'em, ony in the spring; they'd liefer eat mudcats."
The lawyer tied his dug-out to the stake, while Ben, who informed him that his name was Toner, got a willow twig with a crotch at the thick end, and strung his fish on it through the gills.
"I guess you'd better fire them suckers into the drink," he said, but Coristine interposed to save them from such a fate.
"They are my friend's catch," he said, "and I'll let him do what he likes with them."
Then, attended by Mr. Toner, carrying the string of fish, suckers included, he bent his steps towards the Maple Inn.
When they arrived, they found Madame standing in the doorway. She admired the fish, and complimented Coristine on his success. He, however, disclaimed most of them in favour of his friend, for whose health and whereabouts he enquired with much earnestness.
"Ze pauvre Meestare Veelkeensen retires himselfa in ze chomber to shongje his vet habillement vit datta o' Pierre. I 'opes he catcha no cold."