“Pap's tight!” That did not look promising, but we had to stay just the same. Buck helped me to unhitch the mules, helped me also to catch minnows, and in half an hour we started down the river to try fishing before dark came. Buck trotted along.
“Have you got a wagon, Buck?”
“What fer?”
“To bring the fish back.” Buck was not to be caught napping.
“We got that sled thar, but hit won't be big enough,” he said gravely. “An' our two-hoss wagon's out in the cornfield. We'll have to string the fish, leave 'em in the river and go fer 'em in the mornin'.”
“All right, Buck.” The Blight was greatly amused at Buck.
Two hundred yards down the road stood his sisters over the figure of a man outstretched in the road. Unashamed, they smiled at us. The man in the road was “pap”—tight—and they were trying to get him home.
We cast into a dark pool farther down and fished most patiently; not a bite—not a nibble.
“Are there any fish in here, Buck?”
“Dunno—used ter be.” The shadows deepened; we must go back to the house.