"You're a prize angler," she said.
The young fellow's bewilderment gave way to an expansive smile.
"I quite agree with you," he admitted. "I ought to have a blue ribbon, or a pewter mug, or whatever they give the duffer who lands the biggest catch. Let me help you with those hooks. I hope they haven't torn your dress?"
Then the blue-and-white check drew him. The girl's eyes had held him first; next, her brows; afterward, her contrasting hair. The uniform compelled his gaze to significant details—the shawl, the coarse shoes, the fallen cup.
Jean flushed under his scrutiny, and brusquely declined his help.
"No, but let me," he urged, and so humbly that she relented.
"I know more about these things than you do," she said. "Do you know you're trying several kinds of fishing with one line?"
"Oh, yes," he smiled. "You see I haven't a notion what sort of fish frequent these waters, and fish vary a lot in their tastes. Some prefer worms, some have a cannibal appetite for minnows, and some, I believe, like a little bunch of colored feathers, which can't be very nourishing, I must say. I couldn't make up my mind which bait to use, and so I spread a kind of lunch-counter for all comers."
This was too much for Jean's gravity. The fisherman was unruffled by her laughter. In fact, he laughed with her.
"Is it so preposterous as all that?" he asked. "I didn't know but I'd hit on something new. This tackle doesn't belong to me; it's the other fellow's."