an ordinary cork serving as a "bob" from which his dreary, unwavering
gaze seldom shifted.

"I guess they're through bitin' for today," he remarked, after a
long unbroken silence.

"How many have we got?" inquired the other languidly.

"Between us we've got twenty-four. That's a fair-sized mess. Sunfish
don't make much of a showing unless you get a barrel of 'em."

"Good eating though," mused the young man.

"Fried in butter," supplemented the other. "What time is it?"

"Half-past nine."

"Well, that's just about what I'd figured. I've been fishin' in
this 'hole' for something like forty years, off and on, and I've
found out that these here sunfish get through breakfast at exactly
eighteen minutes past nine. I always allow about ten minutes' leeway
in case one or two of 'em might have been out late the night before
or something,--but as a general thing they're pretty dog-goned
prompt for breakfast. Specially in August. Even a fish is lazy in
August. Look at that fish-worm. By gosh, it's BOILED! That shows
you how hot the water is."

He removed the worm from the hook and slowly began to twist the
pole in the more or less perfunctory process of "winding up" the
line. The young man looked on disinterestedly.