for a moment to look at a stout,
middle-aged man who was standing on the steps of the little village
hotel, talking with the landlord. A strap over one shoulder held up a
fishing-basket that swung behind his left hip, and in his right hand he
carried, all ready for use, the lightest fishing-rod Charley Morris had
ever seen. Even Jeff, who was from the city himself, and had looked at
such things in the show windows of the shops, had an idea the stranger
must have made a mistake in bringing that plaything into the country.

"It's a trout rod, Charley. If we'd had one like it this morning!"

"'Tisn't much bigger'n a horsewhip."

Just then the landlord was saying, "Thar isn't much in the pond 'cept
perch and sunfish, but you may take something in the creek above. Your
best show for trout is to work along the trout brook as far as the hill,
and then cut across to the creek, and fish down. 'Tain't far to cross.
To-morrer you can try the brooks beyond the hill. Some of 'em'll give
you a full baskit."

"Hear that, Jeff," whispered Charley. "Just isn't old Galloway a-fooling
him! Sending him to fish in that brook! Why, if our cows got at it all
at once, they'd drink it dry."

Jeff was looking at the high boots the stranger wore over his trousers,
and was just saying, "They're for wading, so he won't wet his feet,"
when Charley looked right up into the face of the "fancy fisherman" from
the city, and asked,

"Mister, do you want any worms?"

"Angle-worms, my lad?"

"And grubs? I know where you can dig lots of 'em. Where Jeff and I got
ours this morning."

"No, thank you, my little man. I don't care for any worms. Would you
like to see my bait?"

"Guess I would. Look here, Jeff, he's going to show his bait."

The stout stranger chuckled merrily as he drew from one of his great
side pockets a sort of little book, with a leather cover and flap.

"Jeff, he carries his worms in a pocket-book."

"Flies, my little man--flies."

"Our fish won't bite at flies, mister; and they won't hide a hook,
neither."

Charley's eyes were opening wide, a moment later, as the little book was
opened before them.

"Flies? Why, mister, there's pretty much every kind of bug, except
bumblebees. All sorts of hooks, too. If you put them pretty things into
the water, you'll get 'em wet, and spoil 'em."

Again the fat man chuckled.

"Will I? Well, now, you and I'll run a race. You two boys go ahead, and
see which of us'll catch the most