Crowded Out o Crofield | Page 8

he said. "It doesn't pay cash, any way. There isn't
anything around Crofield that does pay. Well, it must be time for me to
go home."
CHAPTER III.
I AM ONLY A GIRL.
Jack was dry enough, but anybody could see that he had had a ducking,
when he marched down the main street. He was carrying his prizes in
two strings, one in each hand, and he was looking and feeling taller
than he ever felt before. It was just the right hour to meet people, and
he had to answer curious questions from some women, and from twice
as many men, and from three times as many boys, all the way from
above the green, where he came out into the street, down to the front of
the Washington Hotel.
"Yes; I caught 'em all in the Cocahutchie."
He had had to say that any number of times, and he had also explained,
apparently without trying to conceal anything:
"I had to swim for 'em. Caught 'em all under water. Those big speckled
fellows are trout. They pulled me clean under. All that kind of fish live
under water." And he told half a dozen inquiring boys: "I've found the
best fish-hole you ever saw. Deep water all 'round it. I'm going there
again." And then every one asked: "Take me with you, Jack?"

He had to come to a halt at the tavern, for every man in the arm-chairs
on the piazza brought his feet down from the railing.
"Hold on! I want to look at those fish!" shouted old Livermore, the
landlord. "Where'd you catch 'em?"
"Down the Cocahutchie," said Jack once more. "I caught 'em under
water."
"Those are just what I'm looking for," replied Livermore, rubbing his
sides, while nearly a dozen men crowded around to admire, and to
guess at the weights.
"Traout's a-sellin' at a dollar a paound, over to Mertonville," squealed
old Deacon Hawkins; "and traout o' that size is wuth more'n small
traout. Don't ye let old Livermore cheat ye, Jack."
"I won't cheat him, Deacon," said the big landlord. "I don't want any
thing but the trout. There's a Sunday crowd coming over from
Mertonville, to-morrer, to hear Elder Holloway. I'll give ye two dollars,
Jack."
"That's enough for one fish," said Jack. "Don't you want the big one? I
had to dive for him. He'll weigh more'n three pounds."
"No, he won't!" said the landlord, becoming more and more eager. "Say
three dollars for the lot."
"I daon't know but what I want some o' them traout myself," began
Deacon Hawkins, peering more closely at the largest prize. "It's hard
times,--and a dollar a paound. I've got some folks comin' and Elder
Holloway's to be at my haouse. I don't know but I oughter--"
"I'll take 'em, Jack," interrupted the landlord, testily. "I spoke first.
Three pounds, and two is five pounds, and--"
"I'll give another dollar for the small traout," exclaimed Deacon
Hawkins. "He can't have 'em all."

The landlord might have hesitated even then, but the excitement was
catching, and Squire Jones was actually, but slowly, taking out his
pocket-book.
"Five! There's your five, Jack. The big fish are mine. Take your money.
Fetch 'em in," broke out old Livermore.
"There's my dollar,--and there's my traout,--" squealed the deacon.
"I was just a-goin' to saay--" at that moment growled the deep, heavy
bass voice of Squire Jones.
"Too late," said the landlord. "He's taken my money. Come in, Jack.
Come in and get yours, Deacon," and Jack walked on into the
Washington House with six dollars in his hand, just as a boy he knew
stuck his head under Squire Jones's arm and shouted:
"Jack!--Jack! Why didn't yer put 'em up at auction?"
It took but a minute to get rid of the very fine fish he had sold, and then
the uncommonly successful angler made his way out of the Washington
Hotel through the side door.
"I don't intend to answer any more questions," he said to himself; "and
all that crowd is out there yet."
There was another reason that he did not give, for his perch, good as
they were, and the wide-mouthed sucker, and the great, clumsy
bullheads, looked mean and common, now that their elegant
companions were gone. He felt almost ashamed of them until just as he
reached the back yard of his own home.
A tall, grimy man, with his head under the pump, was vigorously
scrubbing charcoal and iron dust from his face and hands and hair.
"Jack," he shouted, "where'd you get that string o' fish? Best I've seen
round here for ever so long."
Another voice came from the kitchen door, and in half a second it

seemed to belong to a chorus of voices.
"Why, Jack Ogden! What