“I reckon not many people but me knows about this fishing-hole!” said Shrimplin, as he cast his baited hook into the water.

“Where did you learn to fish?” asked Custer, thirsting for that wisdom his father was so ready to impart.

“I guess you’d call it a natural gift in my case, son,” said the little lamplighter modestly.  “I don’t know as I deserve no credit; it’s like playing the organ or walking on a tight rope, the instinct’s got to be there or you’ll only lay yourself open to ridicule.”

But truth to tell, fishing was no very subtle art as practised by Mr. Shrimplin, he merely spat on his bait before he dropped it into the water.  Even Custer knew that every intelligent fisherman did this, you couldn’t reasonably hope to catch anything unless you did; yet there seemed to him, when he now thought of it, such a gap between cause and effect that he asked as he warily watched his cork: 

“What good does it do to spit on your hook?”

“I’ve forgot the science of it, Custer,” admitted his father after a moment’s thought.  “But I’ve always heard old fishermen say you couldn’t catch nothing unless you did.”

“Did you ever try to?”

“I can’t say as I ever did.  What would be the use when you know better?” said Mr. Shrimplin, who was strictly orthodox.  His cork went under and he landed a flopping shiner on the bank; this he took from his hook and tossed back into the water.  “It’s a funny thing about shiners!” he said.

“What is?” inquired Custer.

“Why, you always catch ’em when you ain’t fishing for ’em.  You fish for catfish or sun-dabs, or bass even, if you’re using worms, and you catch shiners; mainly, I suppose, because they are no manner of use to you.  I reckon if you fished for shiners you wouldn’t catch anything,—­you couldn’t—­because there is no more worthless fish that swims!  That’s why fishing is like life; in fact, you can’t do nothing that ain’t like life; but I don’t know but what catching shiners ain’t just a little bit more like life than anything else!  You think you’re going to make a lot of money out of some job you’ve got, but it shaves itself down to half by the time it reaches you; or you’ve got to cough up double what you counted on when it’s the other way about; so it works out the same always; you get soaked whether you buy or sell, from the cradle to the grave you’re always catching shiners!” While Mr. Shrimplin was still philosophizing big drops of warm spring rain began to splash and patter on the long reach of still water before them.  He scrambled to his feet.  “We are going to have some weather, Custer!” he said, and they had scarcely time in which to drive Bill under the shelter of a disused hay barracks in an adjacent field, when the storm broke with all its fury.  Here they spent the better part of an hour, and when at last the rain ceased they climbed into the cart and turned Bill’s head in the direction of home.