on, for a skunk, that he was worth
twenty-five dollars of any doctor's money. I don't know. As I say,
they're friendly little critters; but it's more money that I would
actually pay for one.

Through two closed doors the whine of the fiddle still penetrated.
Perhaps Lew Wee's recent loss had moved him to play later than was his
custom, pondering upon the curious whims that stir the gods when they
start to make things happen. But he was still no cynic. Over and over he
played the little air which means: "Life comes like a bird-song through
the open windows of the heart."

IX

THE TAKER-UP

On a tired evening, in front of the Arrowhead's open fire, I lived over
for the hundredth time a great moment. From the big pool under the falls
four miles up the creek I had landed the Big Trout. Others had failed in
years past; I, too, had failed more than once. But to-day!

At the hour of 9:46 A.M., to be exact, as one should in these matters, I
had cast three times above the known lair of this fish. Then I cast a
fourth time, more from habit than hope; and the fight was on. I put it
here with the grim brevity of a communique. Despite stout resistance, the
objective was gained at 9:55 A.M. And the Big Trout would weigh a good
two and one half--say three or three and one quarter--pounds. These are
the bare facts.

Verily it was a moment to live over; and to myself now I was more
discursive. I vanquished the giant trout again and again, altering
details of the contest at will--as when I waded into icy water to the
waist in a last moment of panic. My calm review disclosed that this had
been fanciful overcaution; but at the great crisis and for three minutes
afterward I had gloried in the wetting.

Now again I three times idly flicked that corner of the pool with a
synthetic moth. Again for the fourth time I cast, more from habit than
hope. Then ensued that terrific rush from the pool's lucent depths--

"Yes, sir; you wouldn't need no two guesses for what she'd wear at a
grand costume ball of the Allied nations--not if you knew her like I do."
This was Ma Pettengill, who had stripped a Sunday paper from the great
city to its society page. She lifted this under the lamp and made strange
but eloquent noises of derision:

"You take Genevieve May now, of a morning, before that strong-arm
Japanese maid has got her face rubbed down and calked with paints,
oils, and putty, and you'd say to her, as a friend and well-wisher: