she is.”      

       Before us was a white-framed house of logs in the porch of which stood two stalwart, good-looking girls. Could we stay all night? We could—there was no hesitation—and straight in we rode.     

       “Where's your father?” Both girls giggled, and one said, with frank unembarrassment:     

       “Pap's tight!” That did not look promising, but we had to stay just the same. Buck helped me to unhitch the mules, helped me also to catch minnows, and in half an hour we started down the river to try fishing       before dark came. Buck trotted along.     

       “Have you got a wagon, Buck?”      

       “What fer?”      

       “To bring the fish back.” Buck was not to be caught napping.     

       “We got that sled thar, but hit won't be big enough,” he said gravely.       “An' our two-hoss wagon's out in the cornfield. We'll have to string the fish, leave 'em in the river and go fer 'em in the mornin'.”      

       “All right, Buck.” The Blight was greatly amused at Buck.     

       Two hundred yards down the road stood his sisters over the figure of a man outstretched in the road. Unashamed, they smiled at us. The man in the road was “pap”—tight—and they were trying to get him home.     

       We cast into a dark pool farther down and fished most patiently; not a bite—not a nibble.     

       “Are there any fish in here, Buck?”      

       “Dunno—used ter be.” The shadows deepened; we must go back to the house.     

       “Is there a dam below here, Buck?”      

       “Yes, thar's a dam about a half-mile down the river.”      

       I was disgusted. No wonder there were no bass in that pool.     

       “Why didn't you tell me that before?”      

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