"Isn't this a big thing, Mort? I was never out on any such voyage as this before. Were you?"
"Don't believe anybody else ever was. Not around here. It's a new thing."
"Wonder what the boys'll say? Mort, we might hold on here long enough to catch a fish or two."
"No, sir-ree! We'll just meandrew till we get to Pawg Lake."
They were pulling nicely along just then, quite a distance above the mill and near the eastern shore of the pond, when a clear, pleasant voice sang out to them:
"Hey, boys! Put me across the pond, please?"
The manner and the accent of that hail were offensively correct and polite, and there at the edge of the woody bank stood a young man of middle size. He carried a joint rod instead of a fish-pole; he had a sort of butterfly net on a stick, and everything about him was nice and expensive to that degree which always arouses the hostility of country village boys. Still, these two were on their good behavior that morning, and their hearts were a little warm over the conduct of Mr. Getty. The Ark was pulled ashore and the stranger was taken on board.
"Straight across, please. Nice boat you have. Capital fun for bright young fellows like you. Spending your day out of school on the water? Good idea."
"Course it is," said Mort, but Quill Sanders added:
"I say, mister, got any fish in your basket yet?"