with the "peanut butcher," if you know who he is: the fellow who is
put on trains to pester passengers to death with all sorts of readable
and eatable indigestibles.

He bought two packages of gum and thereby won favor. Then,
nonchalantly picking up his wading boots and placing them in a
different position, he casually asked the boy how the fishing was, up
this way. The peanut butcher balanced his tray of chewing gum and
candy on the arm of a vacant chair beside Jack, and observed
tentatively that it was fine, and that Jack must be going fishing.
Jack confessed that such was his intention, and the vender of
things-you-never-want made a shrewd guess at his destination.

"Going up into the Feather River country, I bet. Fellow I know just
come back. Caught the limit, he claims. They say Lake Almanor has got
the best fishing in the State, right now. Fellow I know seen a
ten-pounder pulled outa there. He brought back one himself that tipped
the scales at seven-and-a-half. He says a pound is about as small as
they run up there. I'm going to try to get on the W.P. that runs up
the canyon. Then some day I'll drop off and try my luck--"

"Don't run to Lake Almanor, does it? First I ever heard--"

"No, sure it don't! The lake's away off the railroad--thirty or forty
miles. I don't look for a chance to go _there_ fishing. I mean Feather
River--anywhere along up the canyon. They say it's great. You can sure
catch fish! Lots of little creeks coming down outa the canyon, and all
of them full of trout. You'll have all kinds of sport."

"Aw, Russian River's the place to go," Jack dissented craftily, and