have it, the hill was but comparatively little favored of the townsfolk. 

 “Ware!” said I, suddenly. 

 Jason drew his line swiftly and horizontally from the water and dropped it and the rod deftly under the fringe of the bank. 

 We turned on our backs, lazily blinking at the sky. 

 A figure was sauntering along by the side of the little river toward us. It was that of an ill-dressed man of 45 or so, ball-jointed and cadaverous, with a wet, wandering blue eye and light brick-colored hair brushed back into rat-tails. His mouth was one pencil mark twitched up at the corners, and his ears, large and shapeless, stood up prominently like a bat’s. He carried his hands behind his back and rolled his head from side to side as he walked. He espied us a long way off and stopped presently, looking down upon us. 

 “Sinews of whipcord,” he said, in a voice thin as his lips, “and hearts of cats! What tomfoolery now?” 

 My brother raised his head, yawning lazily. 

 “Tom Fool hisself,” said he. 

 “I am not,” said the newcomer, “near such a fool as I look. I can tell the likeliest place for tickling trouts, now, anywhere.” 

 Jason grunted. 

 “And that’s the Itchen,” went on the other with an enjoying chuckle. 

 We vouchsafed him a patronizing laughter. 

 “Too good,” he said; “too good for lob worms and sand-hoppers. Where’s the best place to find trouts, now—the little speckled trouts?” 

 “Where?” said I. 

 “Caught!” he cried, and pounced upon Jason. 

 There was a short, bitter struggle between them, and the man, leaving the boy sitting panting on the grass, leaped apart with a speckled trophy held aloft in his hand. 

 “Give it back!” cried my brother, rising, white and furious, “or I’ll brain you!” He seized up a great lump of chalk as he spoke and balanced it in his hand. 

 “Softly,” said the other, very coolly slipping the trout into the wide pocket of his coat. Jason watched him 

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