"Please explain about this fishing for gum," he said politely.

"Gum him chew," Injun replied.

"Oh, chewing-gum!" cried Whitey. A light dawned on him, for he knew that
Injun was very fond of chewing-gum. So was Whitey. "You trade the fish
for gum."

"No trade; sell 'em; get much gum."

This was the first commercial instinct that Whitey had ever known Injun
to show, and he looked at him admiringly. At that moment Injun got a
bite. He did not betray any of the excitement a white boy does on such
an occasion. He solemnly pulled in his line, and when it was almost in,
a good-sized pickerel squirmed off the hook, and flopped back into the
water. And now Injun showed no disappointment. He seriously examined the
worm on his hook, to see that it was intact, then cast the line into the
river again.

Whitey watched him in silence. Injun got another bite, and the same
operation was repeated, except that the fish that escaped was larger
than the other. Injun patiently rebaited his hook. "Biggest one him get
away," he grunted.

Whitey knew something about fishermen and the stories they tell: that it
is always the biggest fish that escaped. But in this case it seemed to
be true, for strung on a willow twig was Injun's catch, about six small
pickerel.