A Son of the City | Page 4

"Bet you it's going to be a peach of
a day."
The pier was now rapidly filling. A plethoric, sandy-haired German
squatted beside the hunchback, watching an unproductive pole with a
patience worthy of a better cause. At John's corner, a party of voluble
loafers joked noisily as they unwound long, many-hooked throwlines
and jointed nondescript rods. Beside Bill, a phlegmatic Scandinavian
puffed morosely at an empty pipe. Just beyond, a fat negress shifted her
bulk from time to time as she baited the hooks on one of her husband's
numerous fishing outfits. Farther landward, a mixed throng--nattily
clad business men who were snatching a few minutes of sport before
business called, down at the heel out-of-works with nothing to do and
all day to do it in, here a woman with a colorful shirtwaist, there a
couple of noisy school-boys--made the sides of the pier bristle like the
branches of a thicket hedge.
The faint tinge of orange in the eastern sky deepened to a radiant
crimson glow. A glistening, fast-widening, crescent sliver of the sun
appeared on the horizon and painted a long golden path on the rippled
lake, and still the lonely perch waited in vain for a companion in
misery.
Silvey jerked his line from the water and examined the untouched bait

in disgust.
"Just like it was last time," he ejaculated. "I'm going down the pier and
see what the other fellows are catching."
He jammed his pole between two bent nails in a plank and was off,
stopping now and then to peer downward at some trophy as he
sauntered along. John did likewise with his rod and stretched out on the
rough boards to look lazily up at the clear sky. It wasn't half bad after
all, even if the fish weren't biting. There was something in this getting
up and over to the park before the smoke got into the air, to listen to the
songs of the birds and watch the throng of people, that more than
atoned for the lack of luck.
He pulled out his watch dreamily--a quarter of six and still but one
captive--and let his glance follow the wake of a graceful, white-hulled
gasoline cruiser which chugged its way up from the south. Presently
Silvey returned to break in upon his revery with the exciting news that
a man near the life-preserver post had caught five fish. John sat up.
"What did he catch 'em on?" he asked as he stretched his arms.
"Minnows."
"Let's try a couple of ours."
They scraped the hooks free of the whitened worms with their finger
nails and rebaited, only to find that the sun-parched flesh softened and
floated away soon after it was lowered into the water.
"Have to buy some fresh ones! Got any money?"
A thorough search resurrected a worn copper that had lain in Silvey's
back pocket until he had forgotten it--else the coin had gone the way of
many another that had purchased peppermints at the school store. John
surrendered a penny that had been given him the night before for a
perfect spelling paper. They viewed the scanty hoard on the
sun-bleached plank reflectively.

"Ask him." John indicated the Scandinavian, who was well supplied
with the desired bait. Silvey stood up and jingled the two pennies in his
grimy hand with the air of a young millionaire.
Yes, the fisherman would sell some. How many were desired?
"Aw, give me," the boy paused, as if considering the amount sufficient
for their needs, "give me two cents' worth."
The merchant shook his head. "Two cents?" he sneered. "Naw! Won't
sell any for less 'n a nickel."
A gaunt, anaemic southerner, who was with the party of idlers, spoke
up.
"Yeah, boy. What's the matter?"
Silvey turned ruefully. "Ain't got money enough to buy some minnies,"
he explained.
The tall figure stooped abruptly, fumbled in a battered basket which
held a miscellaneous assemblage of bait, throwlines, newspapers, and
food, and drew forth a handful of the diminutive fish.
"Yeah, boy," he smiled.
Silvey offered the two coppers in payment.
"Keep 'em, boy, keep 'em," with an indignant glance at the
imperturbable fish monopolist. "I ain't like some folks."
The boys rebaited their hooks joyfully. The cruiser which John had
sighted earlier in the morning drew up within easy distance of the pier
and dropped anchor. Two of her crew appeared presently in swimming
suits and dove overboard for a morning plunge. From her diminutive,
weathered cabin came the rattle of cooking utensils and the hiss of
frying bacon as the cook of the day prepared breakfast. Bill stirred
restlessly.

"Let's have a look at the sandwiches," he suggested.
They stretched themselves full length on the pier end and, with an
occasional eye to the fishing poles, munched the uncouth slabs