He pulled, missed the strike, and wound in. The minnow was all right, so he tossed it back again.
“That isn't your name,” he said.
“If 'tain't, then that ain't your'n?”
“Yes 'tis,” he said, shaking his head affirmatively.
A long cry came down the ravine:
“J-u-n-e! eh—oh—J-u-n-e!” That was a queer name for the mountains, and the fisherman wondered if he had heard aright—June.
The little girl gave a shrill answering cry, but she did not move.
“Thar now!” she said.
“Who's that—your Mammy?”
“No, 'tain't—hit's my step-mammy. I'm a goin' to ketch hell now.” Her innocent eyes turned sullen and her baby mouth tightened.