With his mind somewhat at ease, Monty ambled along the shore of the Yellowstone, with Whitey enjoying the scenery as much as his conscience would let him, and his conscience getting weaker every minute.  And presently, at some distance, he saw a small huddled-up figure sitting on the bank.  Closer inspection proved this figure to be pink, and still closer inspection revealed it to be Injun.  Wondering what Injun was doing in that neighborhood, Whitey approached, and was surprised to find that Injun was fishing.

Knowing that Indians never fish except through necessity, Whitey was puzzled.  As he drew nearer, Injun turned and regarded him, betraying no surprise at Whitey’s being there; at his not being in school.  Whitey dismounted and sat near his friend.

“What are you fishing for, Injun?” he asked.

“Fish,” Injun replied seriously.

“Of course,” said Whitey.  “I mean what do you want to catch the fish for?”

“Gum,” spoke Injun briefly.

“Gum?” demanded the bewildered Whitey.  “You can’t make gum out of fish.”

Injun said nothing at all.  Whitey thought that perhaps he had a bite, but he hadn’t.  He just didn’t ooze information.  It had to be dragged from him.  So Whitey proceeded.

“Please explain about this fishing for gum,” he said politely.

“Gum him chew,” Injun replied.

“Oh, chewing-gum!” cried Whitey.  A light dawned on him, for he knew that Injun was very fond of chewing-gum.  So was Whitey.  “You trade the fish for gum.”

“No trade; sell ’em; get much gum.”

This was the first commercial instinct that Whitey had ever known Injun to show, and he looked at him admiringly.  At that moment Injun got a bite.  He did not betray any of the excitement a white boy does on such an occasion.  He solemnly pulled in his line, and when it was almost in, a good-sized pickerel squirmed off the hook, and flopped back into the water.  And now Injun showed no disappointment.  He seriously examined the worm on his hook, to see that it was intact, then cast the line into the river again.

Whitey watched him in silence.  Injun got another bite, and the same operation was repeated, except that the fish that escaped was larger than the other.  Injun patiently rebaited his hook.  “Biggest one him get away,” he grunted.

Whitey knew something about fishermen and the stories they tell:  that it is always the biggest fish that escaped.  But in this case it seemed to be true, for strung on a willow twig was Injun’s catch, about six small pickerel.

“How long you been fishing here?” Whitey asked.

“Since sunup.”

“And that’s all you’ve caught?” Whitey indicated the string of fish.

“Um.”

“Let’s see your hook,” Whitey said, as another pickerel was pulled almost to shore, and then flopped back into its native element.

When Injun displayed the hook, Whitey saw that it was one of the little ones they had used in fastening the tick-tack to Wong’s window.  “Why, this is too small for pickerel,” exclaimed Whitey.  “It’s for perch.  You ought to have a bigger one.”