“Well now, David,” said the storekeeper, turning around, a fish-pole in one hand and two or three fish-hooks in the other. “Here’s somethin’ for you. You’ve ben a good boy an’ helped me fust-rate.”
Joel rushed over to the counter, his black eyes sparkling. David came up slowly.
“Hold your hands, Davie,” said Mr. Atkins. “Now, says I, I guess you can ketch some fish. Hurry up, my boy,” as David hung back.
“Can’t—can’t Joel have ’em?” asked Davie.
“No—no, these are for you. You’ve ben helpin’ me real good in th’ store.” Mr. Atkins dangled the fish-pole before the boys. Joel held his breath and crowded closely up.
“Joel could catch more fish with ’em,” said Davie, the color dropping out from his little face.
“Well, maybe,” said the storekeeper with a keen glance at Joel, who twisted his brown hands tightly together, trying not to say how very much he wanted that fish-pole and those splendid hooks. “There, hold out your hands, Davie.”
David put forth a pair of hands that shook so that the fish-hooks tumbled out of them, and down to the floor.
“I’ll pick ’em up,” cried Joel, scrambling after them. He held them a minute, trying the sharp points on his small thumb, and turning them over and over admiringly.
“Now it just comes to me, I do verily b’lieve I’ve got another fish-pole like David’s,” said Mr. Atkins reflectively, and turning back to his shelves.