"This morning? Not a ghost of one! Yet they say this is a good stream! I think that I warn them off the hook. 'Monsieur Black Bass, or Signor Trout, as it may be, my desire not to take you is gaining, I feel, upon my desire to take you! Your own desire naturally aiding the first, I grow to feel that we make a strong combination!'"
He laughed, putting up his rod. Then his mustaches went down and his face became serious enough, "So much mangling! I've had my fill."
"How did you come? Over the mountain?"
"Yes. I am camping with a dozen New York and Washington fellows on another little river over there. The others fish that stream. I'm like Mrs. Elton. I adore exploring! I slept last night in a mountain cabin—Cliff's. Can you tell me how far I am from Sweet Rocket farm?"
"Less than a mile."
"No! I didn't think from what the mountain folk said that it was so near. I knew before I came that he was somewhere in these parts."
"Do you know Mr. Linden?"
"I was his classmate at the university. Then, fifteen years ago, I met him in Southern Russia. We had a couple of weeks together, and then I must hurry on to Constantinople, where I was due. He went into the Caucasus. I lost sight of him. It was two years later that I heard of that accident which blinded him, and I've heard since only second-and third-hand things. The other day in the club a man told me that he was living where his people had lived, down here in Virginia. I meant to go to see him, but I meant to write first."
"I am a visitor at Sweet Rocket. But I am sure that Mr. Linden would wish you to come on to the house. Had you not better do so?"
"Why, yes, then, I think that I shall." He stood up from the hemlock roots. "You are very good. My name is Curtin—Martin Curtin."