“Oh—you’re going fishing,” exclaimed Bob.
“Sure I am—what else would I be digging worms for? Hiram and I are going fishing.”
“Oh—of course,” murmured Bob.
It was perfectly obvious and natural now. There was good fishing in Lake Netcong or Rockaway river, both near Cliffside. Bob had been to both places, with both good and bad luck at times. And he had fished with worms as well as with hellgrammites, and grasshoppers. The lads of Cliffside inclined to natural bait rather than spinners, plugs or artificial flies.
“Don’t you want to come along?” invited Jolly Bill as Bob stood looking at him turn over the brown earth, scanning each spadeful, meanwhile, for a sight of worms.
“Don’t believe I can,” answered the lad. “But you won’t find any worms here, no matter how long you dig. It isn’t the right kind of earth.”
“Do you know,” said Jolly Bill with a frank and engaging smile, “I am beginning to believe that myself. All I’ve turned up the last half hour has been one poor, miserable little worm. Must be an orphan, I reckon,” and he laughed heartily.
“That’s what I been telling him,” spoke the voice of Hiram Beegle from the doorway of his log cabin. “You’ll never get any bait there, Bill, and you might as well quit. Down back where the stable used to be are worms aplenty.”
“Oh, all right,” assented the other. “You ought to know the lay of the land better than I do. And I certainly haven’t had any luck here. I’ll take your advice.”
At one time Hiram had kept a horse which hauled a ramshackle wagon that took him to and from Cliffside. But he had sold the animal some years ago, as requiring too much care from an old man.