There was a son of fourteen, who sat at table with us, but
he did not appear to count as a member of the family.
"Yes," I answered, "I understood that there was good fishing hereabout,
and, at any rate, I should like to spend a few days among these hills
and mountains."
"Well," said Peter, "there's trout in some of our streams, though not
as many as there used to be, and there's hills a plenty, and mountains
too, if you choose to walk fur enough. They're a good deal furder off
than they look. What did you bring with you to fish with?"
"Nothing at all," I answered. "I was told in the town that you were a
great fisherman, and that you could let me have all the tackle I would
need."
"Upon my word," said old Peter, resting his pipe-hand on his knee and
looking steadfastly at me, "you're the queerest fisherman I've see'd
yet. Nigh every year, some two or three of 'em stop here in the fishin'
season, and there was never a man who didn't bring his jinted pole, and
his reels, and his lines, and his hooks, and his dry-goods flies, and
his whiskey-flask with a long strap to it. Now, if you want all these
things, I haven't got 'em."
"Whatever you use yourself will suit me," I answered.
"All right, then," said he. "I'll do the best I can for you in the
mornin'.
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