130 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 



About noon Garry flung the spear in the snow and 

 said: "I'm hungry; what do you say?" 



Now that the matter was mentioned, there did seem 

 to be something lacking, and without giving it that pro- 

 found consideration which Garry gave to questions, I 

 answered him in his own simple style: "So'm I." All 

 the morning I had been as silent as he; in fact, when a 

 fellow gets shut up with such short answers as are here 

 recorded there is nothing for him to do but to shut up. 

 But how I did want to talk about the habits of eels, what 

 they found to eat in the mud and other things. Away 

 up the pond, a quarter of a mile away, a man was chop- 

 ping wood. The sound of his stroke did not reach us 

 until his axe was raised again. I asked father about this 

 when I got home, but I did not intrude the question on 

 Garry. He did not then encourage talk. 



We went ashore by a spring and made a fire. Garry 

 opened the basket and brought out bread, butter and 

 sausages. Just how he could cook the last was a mys- 

 tery, and they could not be eaten raw. Bolognas were 

 unknown then, as this was before the German invasion 

 and the era of limburger, schweizerkase, bolognas, 

 pretzels and lager beer. I gathered dry fire wood and 

 watched. He dragged two longs limbs and rested one 

 end of each upon a low stump. This was table and 

 chairs. Then he took birch twigs and ran them length- 

 wise through the sausages and stuck them up before the 

 fire. The ground being frozen, he held them nearly 

 erect by pieces of wood, and there they fried in their 

 own fat, the birch twigs imparting no bad flavor. A tin 

 cup of water from the spring served for both, and if a 

 hungry boy astride a branch of a tree with a big birch 

 chip for a plate did not do full justice to his appetite then 

 he never did. 



