“Kindly keep your silence, sir, and do not outrage my sufficiently harrowed feelings by adding worse to bad.  I shall go to the inn on terra firma, and leave you in charge of what you seem so able to manage in your own clownish, pantomimic way.  Be good enough to bring my fish, and do not distinguish yourself by upsetting them into their native element.”  With these words, and in great apparent scorn, the draggled dominie took his course along the bank and soon disappeared from view.  The lawyer followed in the canoe, but more slowly, as the current was against him, and often turned the boat round.  By dint of strenuous efforts he gained the bridge, and found the supposed Ben leaning over it.

“I see you’ve drownded your man,” he remarked with a laugh.

“Yes,” replied Coristine; “we had a spill.”

“Had any luck?”

“Pretty fair,” the lawyer answered, exhibiting his treasures.

“Perch, and chub, and shiners, and them good-for-nawthun tag ends of all creation, suckers.”

“Is that what they are?” asked the disappointed fisherman, holding up the spoil of Wilkinson’s rod.

“That’s jest what they are, flabby, bony, white-livered, or’nary suckers.  Niggers and Injuns won’t touch ’em, ony in the spring; they’d liefer eat mudcats.”

The lawyer tied his dug-out to the stake, while Ben, who informed him that his name was Toner, got a willow twig with a crotch at the thick end, and strung his fish on it through the gills.

“I guess you’d better fire them suckers into the drink,” he said, but Coristine interposed to save them from such a fate.

“They are my friend’s catch,” he said, “and I’ll let him do what he likes with them.”

Then, attended by Mr. Toner, carrying the string of fish, suckers included, he bent his steps towards the Maple Inn.

When they arrived, they found Madame standing in the doorway.  She admired the fish, and complimented Coristine on his success.  He, however, disclaimed most of them in favour of his friend, for whose health and whereabouts he enquired with much earnestness.

“Ze pauvre Meestare Veelkeensen retires himselfa in ze chomber to shongje his vet habillement vit datta o’ Pierre.  I ’opes he catcha no cold.”

“Better mix him a hot drink, Madame,” said Mr. Toner.

“I ’ave fear, Ben, you lofe too moch hot dreenks,” replied Madame.

“That’s jest where you’re out, Missus; I take my little tods cold.”

“Hot or cold, you take nossing in our salon.”

“Naw, not so long as I can get better stuff, real white wheat that ain’t seen the water barl.”