At half-past five the morning of the day after John Hardy's arrival at the parsonage, Kirstin knocked at the door of his room, and brought in the accustomed coffee and its belongings.
John Hardy was dressed, as he was always an early riser, and was attaching two large Irish lake trout flies to a stronger casting line than he had selected the night before.
"Morn," said Kirstin. "I tell the gentleman that Karl and Axel have had coffee. Has the gentleman anything to command?"
"Tell them I am ready to go fishing," said Hardy; "but if we catch any trout and the trout are in the kitchen by ten o'clock, can we have them cooked for breakfast?"
"If the gentleman's fish are there, the frying-pan is ready," replied Kirstin; "but the Herr Pastor would not wish the gentleman to be without a breakfast."
It was clear Kirstin doubted a trout breakfast's possibility. John Hardy began to doubt too; but he took his fishing-rod, a light sixteen-foot fly rod, and called the two boys, who rushed into his room eager to a degree.
"Herr Hardy," said Axel, "they all say you will catch nothing—do you think you will?"
The anxiety in the boy's face amused Hardy, who gave him the fishing-bag to carry, and his brother Karl the landing-net.
John Hardy went to the bridge close to the parsonage, and looked up the river. The country was flat, chiefly arable land, with meadows here and there of coarse grass. The river had a peaty colour, and resembled in its flow some portions of the Thames.
"Do you know where the deepest water is up the river, boys?" inquired Hardy.