"Oh, hell!" Bill said. "I'm sorry, fella."
"It's all right," I said. "I don't give a damn any more."
"Really?"
"Really. Only I'd a hell of a lot rather not talk about it."
"You aren't sore I asked you?"
"Why the hell should I be?"
"I'm going to sleep," Bill said. He put a newspaper over his face.
"Listen, Jake," he said, "are you really a Catholic?"
"Technically."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"All right, I'll go to sleep now," he said. "Don't keep me awake by talking so much."
I went to sleep, too. When I woke up Bill was packing the rucksack. It was late in the afternoon and the shadow from the trees was long and went out over the dam. I was stiff from sleeping on the ground.
"What did you do? Wake up?" Bill asked. "Why didn't you spend the night?" I stretched and rubbed my eyes.
"I had a lovely dream," Bill said. "I don't remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream."
"I don't think I dreamt."
"You ought to dream," Bill said. "All our biggest business men have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. Look at Rockefeller. Look at Jo Davidson."
I disjointed my rod and Bill's and packed them in the rod-case. I put the reels in the tackle-bag. Bill had packed the rucksack and we put one of the trout-bags in. I carried the other.
"Well," said Bill, "have we got everything?"
"The worms."
"Your worms. Put them in there."
