toward the generation of an appetite that needs little tempting to expend its energies. He makes a hearty breakfast on this particular morning, drowns the memories of the menu in a bowl of milk, and announces to Landlord Howe that he is ready to be directed to the best trout brook in central Vermont.
Mr. Howe surveys the eight-ounce bamboo with mild disdain. "Them fancy rigs ain't much good on our brooks," he declares. "Ketch more with a 75-cent rod."
"I am rather inclined to agree with you on that point, most genial boniface; but it's the only rod I happen to have with me, and I expect to return with some fish unless the myriad denizens of the brook which you enthusiastically described last night exist only in your imagination. By the way, what do you think of the bait?" passing over a flask.
Mr. Howe's faded blue eyes moisten and a kindly smile plays over a countenance browned by many summers in the hay field.
"Didn't buy that in Vermont," he ventures.
"Hardly. I'm not lined with asbestos."
The landlord grins. It is a habit he has.
"I keeps a little suthin' on hand myself," he confides in a cautious undertone, although only the cattle are listening. "But fact is, there ain't no use er keepin' better'n dollar'n a half a gallon liquor. The boys want suthin' that'll scratch when it goes down. Now that, I opine," with an affectionate glance at the flask which Ashley files away for future reference, "must a cost nigh onter $3 a gallon."
"As much as that," smiles Ashley. "That, most appreciative of bonifaces, "is the best whisky to be found on Fulton street, New York. Well, I must be 'driving along.' Where's this wonderful brook of yours?"
"Follow that road round through the barnyard and 'cross the basin to the woods. Good fishin' for four miles. And mind," as Ashley saunters away, "don't bring back any trouts that ain't six inches long, or the fish warden will light on ye."
