"Somewhat of a variety," Mr. Linden said with a smile. "What makes the fish come into your net?"
"Haven't an idee!" said the man—"without it bees that fish is very onintelligent creturs. I don't suppose fish has much brains, sir. And so they goes further and fares worse." Which statement of the case he appeared to think amusing.
"But then why do they sometimes stay out?" said Mr. Linden,—"because I have read of men who 'toiled all the night and caught nothing'."
"Wall, you see," said the fisher, "they goes in shoals or flocks like, and they's notional. Some of 'em won't come at one time o' tide, and some won't come at another—and they has their favourite places too. Then if a man sets his nets where the fish aint, all creation might work and catch nothin'. This side the river is better now than over there."
"These men that I was talking of," said Mr. Linden, "once found a difference even between the two sides of their ship. But the other time, when they had caught nothing all the night, in the morning they caught so many that their net broke and both their ships began to sink."
"What kind o' folks was them?" said the oarsman a little scornfully.
"Why they were fishermen," said Mr. Linden. "They followed your calling first, and then they followed mine."
"What's yourn?" said the other, in his tone of good-humoured interest.
"Guess you're a speaker o' some sort—aint ye?"
"Yes—" Mr. Linden said, with a little demure gesture of the head,—"I am—'of some sort,' as you say. But I've got an account of these men in my pocket—don't you want to hear it?—it's more interesting than any account you could have of me."
"Like to hear it well enough—" said the man at the net, setting himself astride the gunwale to listen, with the net hanging from his hand.