"Hello," said the Doctor, with gruff kindness, "any luck?"

The boy's quick smile showed a set of teeth--the most perfect the
physician had ever seen, and his young voice was tuned to the music of
the woods, as he answered, "I have caught no fish, sir."

By these words and the light in his brown eyes the philosopher knew him
instantly for a true fisherman. He noted wonderingly that the lad's
speech was not the rude dialect of the backwoods, while he marveled at
the depth of wisdom in one so young. How incidental after all is the
catching of fish, to the one who fishes with true understanding. The
boy's answer was both an explanation and a question. It explained that
he did not go fishing for fish alone; and it asked of the stranger a
declaration of his standing--why did he go fishing? What did he mean by
fisherman's luck?

The Doctor deliberated over his reply, while slowly drawing in his line
to examine the bait. Meanwhile the boy stood quietly by regarding him
with a wide, questioning look. The man realized that much depended upon
his next word.

Then the lad's youth betrayed him into eagerness. "Have you been farther
up the river just around the bend, where the giant cottonwoods are, and
the bluffs with the pines above, and the willows along the shore? Oh, but
it's fine there! Much better than this."

He had given the stranger his chance. If the Doctor was to be admitted
into this boy's world he must now prove his right to citizenship. Looking
straight into the boy's brown eyes, the older fisherman asked, "A better