The fact that Bunch was sore worried me, and I began to realize
that it was now only a question of a few hours when I'd have to
crawl up to Clara J. and hand in my resignation.
Every time I drew a picture of that scene and heard myself telling
her I was nothing but a fawn-colored four-flush I could see my
future putting on the mitts and getting ready to hand me one.
And when I thought of the dish of fairy tales I had cooked for that
girl I could feel something running around in my head and trying to
hide. I suppose it was my conscience.
At the brook, Uncle Peter began to throw out hints that he was the
original lone fisherman. The lobster never lived that could back
away from him, and as for fly-casting, well, he was Piscatorial
Peter, the Fancy Fish Charmer from Fishkill.
The old gentleman is very rich, but he loves to live around with
his relatives, not because he's stingy, but simply because he likes
them and knows they are good listeners.
Uncle Peter is a reformed money-maker. He wrote the first Monopoly
that ever made faces at a defenceless public. He was the owner of
the first Trust ever captured alive, and he fed it on government
bonds and small dealers till it grew tame enough to eat out of a
pocketbook.
Uncle Peter sat down on a rock overhanging the clay bank which
sloped up about four feet above the lazy brooklet. He carefully
arranged his expensive rod, placed his fish basket near by and
entered into a dissertation on angling that would make old Ike
Walton get up and leave the aquarium.
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