Before supper the old man came out on to the porch where I was
sitting. "It seems," said he, "that my gals has got it inter their heads
that you bought that big fish of Barney Sloat, and as I can't say I seed
you ketch it, they're not willin' to give in, 'specially as I didn't git
no such big one. 'Tain't wise to buy fish when you're goin' fishin'
yourself. It's pretty certain to tell agen you."
"You ought to have given me that advice before," I said, somewhat
shortly. "You saw me buy the fish."
"You don't s'pose," said old Peter, "that I'm goin' to say anythin' to
keep money out of my neighbor's pockets. We don't do that way in these
parts. But I've told the gals they're not to speak another word about
it, so you needn't give your mind no worry on that score. And now let's
go in to supper. If you're as hungry as I am, there won't be many of
them fish left fur breakfast."
That evening, as we were sitting smoking on the porch, old Peter's mind
reverted to the subject of the unfounded charge against me. "It goes
pretty hard," he remarked, "to have to stand up and take a thing you
don' like when there's no call fur it. It's bad enough when there is a
call fur it. That matter about your fish buyin' reminds me of what
happened two summers ago to my sister, or ruther to her two little
boys--or, more correct yit, to one of 'em.
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