him what kind of a rod to cut out of the bush for ordinary still fishing, he offered to lend him one of his own fly rods, and opened his fly book for his inspection.  Soon the pair were deep in all kinds of artificial flies and their manufacture, Black and Red and White Hackles, Peacock Fly, Mackerel, Green Grasshopper, Black Ant, Governor, Partridge, and a host more.  The lawyer declined the rod, as the storekeeper informed him that, so late in the season and in the day, it was utterly useless to look for trout.  He had better get old Batiste at the Inn to dig him up some earthworms, and go fishing with them like the boys.  He would find a canoe moored near the bridge which he could use.  Who it belonged to Mr. Bigglethorpe didn’t know, but it was of no consequence, for everybody took it that wanted it for a morning or afternoon.  If Mr. Coristine heard of any new kind of fly, perhaps he’d be good enough to remember him and let him know, something killing for autumn use, or, as people say here, for fall fishing.  Mr. Coristine promised to remember him, and departed with his purchases, just as a voice, feminine but decided, called to Mr. Bigglethorpe by name to come and hold the baby, while its owner dished the dinner.  “Talk about Hackles,” said the lawyer to himself on the way Inn-wards, “I imagine he has somebody in there that can hackle him, long beard and all.”

The dinner bell at the Maple was ringing vigorously.  Monsieur Lajeunesse had taken off his coat to ring it, and stood in the doorway in a flaming red waistcoat, the companion of his tuque, over a spotlessly white shirt, to let all who dwelt on the Beaver River know that the hour of noon had arrived.  The dinner, over which Madame presided, was excellent.  With the soup and the fish there was white wine, and good sound beer with the entrees and solids.  The schoolmaster spoke French to the hostess, chiefly about the book he had been reading, and the lawyer discussed fishing with Pierre, who constantly referred to his great authority, Meestare Bulky.  Madame, charmed that her guest could converse with her in her mother tongue, generously filled his glasses, and provided his plates with the most seductive morsels.  Monsieur Veelkeenson was the white-haired boy at that table, and he felt it, yielded to the full satisfaction of it.  He had dined royally, and was fit for anything.  When his friend asked him if he would go fishing, he replied jauntily, and in a way quite unlike himself:  “Why, suttenly, which would you rather do or go fishin’?”

“O Wilks,” cried the lawyer, “you’re a patent pressed brick!  I feel like old Isaac Walton’s Coridon, that said, d’ye mind, ’Come, hostess, give us more ale, and let’s drink to him,’ which is natural, seeing I’m called Corry.”