"You don't pick as fast as she does," said Milly, while Uncle Ben hunted up the money.
"He's done his stent, and was helpin' me. I'll have to pick a lot before I git my quarter," said the girl, defending her friend, in spite of her bashfulness.
"Must you each make a quarter?"
"Yes'm. We don't have to; but we wanter, so we can go to the circus that's comin' to-morrer. He made his'n ketchin' trout; so he's helpin' me," explained the girl.
"Where do you get your trout?" asked Uncle Ben, sniffing the air, as if he already smelt them cooking.
"In the brook. I ain't sold mine yet. Want to buy 'em? Six big ones for a quarter," said the boy, seeing hunger in the good man's eye and many greenbacks in the corpulent purse.
"Yes, if you'll clean them."
"But, Uncle, we can't cook them," began Milly.
"I can. Let an old campaigner alone for getting up a gipsy lunch. You wanted a surprise; so I'll give you one. Now, Billy, bring on your fish."
"My name is Daniel Webster Butterfield Brown," returned the boy, with dignity; adding, with a comical change of tone: "Them fish is cleaned, or you'd a got 'em cheaper."