“We dont try to catch him anymore,” he said. “We just watch Boston folks that come out and try.”
“Is he the only fish in this pool?”
“Yes. He ran all the others out. The best place to fish around here is down at the Eddy.”
“No it aint,” the second said. “It’s better at Bigelow’s Mill two to one.” Then they argued for a while about which was the best fishing and then left off all of a sudden to watch the trout rise again and the broken swirl of water suck down a little of the sky. I asked how far it was to the nearest town. They told me.
“But the closest car line is that way,” the second said, pointing back down the road. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. Just walking.”
“You from the college?”
“Yes. Are there any factories in that town?”
“Factories?” They looked at me.
“No,” the second said. “Not there.” They looked at my clothes. “You looking for work?”