"What do you catch here?" pursued the candidate, beaming good-fellowship.
The line suddenly drew taut, and a muddy fish whipped through the sunshine within a scant inch of Graves's nose.
"Bullheads," answered the laconic Hinchey.
The visitor was disconcerted.
"You—er—eat them?" he remarked blankly, eyeing first the beery-looking water and then the ugly fish.
"Naw," sneered Jap. "I'm foundin' 'n 'quarium." He tossed the bullhead into a pail, and, spying a piccaninny scudding round a corner, called: "Here, you chocolate drop, take this yer fish ter yer mammy. Two mor,' 'n' I'll hev 'nuff fer supper. Set down," he added to his guest.
"Thanks," said Bernard, hunting vainly for a clean spot on the string-piece. He lit a cigarette as a sanitary precaution, and bethought him to offer one to Hinchey.
"None o' them coffin-nails fer me," declined the Spartan. "I smokes men's terbacker."
Graves gave him a cigar which he chanced to have about him.
"I don't seem to have a match left," he observed, fumbling in his pockets.