“What’s his name?”
Charlie had no help for it now.
“Tom Drift,” he faltered.
“Tom Drift! I thought you and he were at loggerheads.”
“Oh, don’t you know we’ve made it up? He was awfully kind about it, and said he was sorry, when it was really my fault, and we shook hands, and to-morrow we are going to fish in a place he knows where there’s no end of trout.”
“Where’s that?”
“He didn’t want me to tell, for fear everybody should come and spoil the sport; but I suppose I can tell you, though; it’s up the Sharle, near Gurley.”
“Humph! I’ve fished there before now. Not such a wonderful lot of fish, either.”
“I suppose you won’t be there to-morrow?” asked Charlie nervously, afraid of losing the confidence of Tom Drift by attracting strangers to his waters.
“Not if I know it,” replied Joe. “I say, youngster, I thought you had given up the notion of making up to that fellow?”