pins. Bobaday learned how to make a slip-knot with the horse-hair and
hold it in silent suspense just where the minnows moved: the moment a
fish glided into the open snare a dexterous jerk whipped him out of
the water, held firmly about the middle by the hair noose. It
required skill and nice handling, and the split-sleeved boy was the
most accomplished snarer of all.

[Illustration: BOBADAY LUNCHES WITH STRANGE BOYS.]

Robert shared his lunch with these youths, and parted from them
reluctantly when the horses were put in. But aunt Corinne who stood
by in a critical attitude, said she couldn't see any use in catching
such little fish. You never fried minnies. You used 'em for bait in
deep water, though, the split-sleeved boy condescended to inform her,
and you _could_ put 'em into a glass jar, and they'd grow like
everything. Aunt Corinne was just becoming fired with anxiety to own
such a jarful herself, when the carriage turned toward the road and
her mother obliged her to climb in.

About the middle of the afternoon Zene halted and waited for the
carriage to come up. He left his seat and came to the rear of Old
Hickory, the off carriage horse, slapping a fly flat on Old Hickory's
flank as he paused.

"What's the matter, Zene?" inquired Grandma Padgett. "Has anything
happened?"

"No, marm," replied Zene. He was a quiet, singular fellow, halting
in his walk on account of the unevenness of his legs; but faithful to
the family as either Boswell or Johnson. Grandma Padgett having