ait before he dropped it into the
water. Even Custer knew that every intelligent fisherman did this, you
couldn't reasonably hope to catch anything unless you did; yet there
seemed to him, when he now thought of it, such a gap between cause and
effect that he asked as he warily watched his cork:

"What good does it do to spit on your hook?"

"I've forgot the science of it, Custer," admitted his father after a
moment's thought. "But I've always heard old fishermen say you couldn't
catch nothing unless you did."

"Did you ever try to?"

"I can't say as I ever did. What would be the use when you know better?"
said Mr. Shrimplin, who was strictly orthodox. His cork went under and
he landed a flopping shiner on the bank; this he took from his hook and
tossed back into the water. "It's a funny thing about shiners!" he
said.

"What is?" inquired Custer.

"Why, you always catch 'em when you ain't fishing for 'em. You fish for
catfish or sun-dabs, or bass even, if you're using worms, and you catch
shiners; mainly, I suppose, because they are no manner of use to you. I
reckon if you fished for shiners you wouldn't catch anything,--you
couldn't--because there is no more worthless fish that swims! That's why
fishing is like life; in fact, you can't do nothing that ain't like
life; but I don't know but what catching shiners ain't just a little bit
more like life than anything else! You think you're going to make a lot
of money out of some job you've got, but it shaves itself down to half
by the time it reaches you; or you've got to cough up double what you
counted on when it's the other way about; so it works out the same
always; you get soaked whether you buy or sell, from the cradle to the
grave you're always catching shiners!" While Mr. Shrimplin was still
philosophizing big drops of warm spring rain began to splash and patter
on the long reach of still water before them. He scrambled to his feet.
"We are going to have some weather, Custer!" he said, and they had
scarcely time in which to drive Bill under the shelter of a disused hay
barracks in an adjacent field, when the storm broke with all its fury.
Here they spent the better part of an hour, and when at last the rain
ceased they climbed into the cart and turned Bill's head in the
direction of home.

"I hope, Custer, that your ma won't be scared; it's getting mighty
late," said the senior Shrimplin, and he shook his head as if in pity of
a human weakness which his mi