But still he gave no sign of interest--even when the little girl
spoke at last:

"Dinner's ready."

He did not look around, for he had crouched, his body taut from
head to foot, and he might have been turned suddenly to stone for
all the sign of life he gave, and the little girl too was just as
motionless. Then she saw the little statue come slowly back to
quivering life. She saw the bow bend, the shaft of the arrow
drawing close to the boy's paling cheek, there was a rushing hiss
through the air, a burning hiss in the water, a mighty bass leaped
from the convulsed surface and shot to the depths again, leaving
the headless arrow afloat. The boy gave one sharp cry and lapsed
into his stolid calm again.

The little girl said nothing, for there is no balm for the tragedy
of the big fish that gets away. Slowly he untied the string from
his reddened wrist and pulled the arrow in. Slowly he turned and
gazed indifferently at the four crisp fish on four dry twigs with
four pieces of corn pone lying on the grass near them, and the
little girl squatting meekly and waiting, as the woman should for
her working lord. With his Barlow knife he slowly speared a corn
pone, picking up a fish with the other hand, and still she waited
until he spoke.

"Take out, Mavie," he said with great gravity and condescension,
and then his knife with a generous mouthful on its point stopped
in the air, his startled eyes widened, and the little girl shrank
cowering behind him. A heavy footfall had crunched on the quiet