Whereupon Charlie launched into a lengthy and animated account of his experiences, to which Tom pretended to listen, but scarcely heard a word.
“So you are fond of fishing?” he said, casually, after the boy had mentioned something on that subject.
“Ain’t I, though?” cried Charlie, now quite happy, and his old self again. “I say, Tom Drift, would you like to see the new lance-wood top I’ve got to my rod? It’s a stunner, I can tell you. I’ll lend it you, you know, any time you like.”
“Have you caught much since you were here!” asked Tom, anxious to get this hateful business over.
“No. You know the brook here isn’t a good one for fish, and I don’t know anywhere else near.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Tom, as if the idea had then for the first time occurred to him. “Suppose we go off for a regular good day on Saturday? It’s a holiday, you know, and we could go and try up the Sharle, near Gurley. There’s lots of trout there, and we are certain to have a good day.”
“How jolly!” exclaimed Charlie. “It would be grand. But I say, Tom Drift, are you sure you wouldn’t mind coming? It wouldn’t be a bother to you, would it?”
“Not a bit. I like a good day’s fishing. But, I say, young un, you’d better not say anything about it to any one, or we shall have a swarm of fellows come too, and that will spoil all the sport.”
“All right,” said Charlie. “I say what a day we shall have! I’ll bring my watch and knife, you know, and some grub, and we can picnic there, eh?”
“That’ll be splendid. Well, I must go in now, so good-bye, Newcome, and shake hands.”