ler wid de basket, an' ev'y nigger what tasted one peanut, he bought a sack full."
"By the same token, McDonald," exclaimed the Colonel; "there might be something in this."
"Wouldn't hurt to try. We've got plenty of nets and seines."
"Yas suh, Mister Bim, but I likes a trot-line; it's bes' for catfish."
"But you can wade in with a long seine," suggested the Scotchman; "and"
"Not me" Zack shook his head. "Side's gwine to ketch dem fish." Zack had looked down the throat of one hippopotamus—which was enough for Zack.
The Colonel's eyes twinkled: "But, Zack, you'd be certain to get fish if you went after them yourself."
"Naw suh, Cunnel, I bin studyin' an' studyin' 'bout dis here catfish stan'. Me an' Side kin ten' to dat bizness a heap mo' better, ef Side ketches de fish?"
"All right," the Colonel suggested, "let Said cast the net, while Zack takes a canoe and runs the trot-line. No fisherman on the Mississippi can hold a candle to Zack, when it comes to running trot-lines."
"Yas suh, Cunnel, dat sho is de troof. But I'm de main boss o' dat catfish stan', an' I got to
