"Where can I get fishing tackle, landlord?" asked the lawyer.
"At ze store, zare is onelly one. You vill not lose yourself long in
zisa city," replied mine host with an attempt at wit.
Wilkinson remained in the cool parlour, inspecting the plates on the
walls and a few books on a side table. The latter were chiefly poor
novels in English, left by former guests as not worth taking home, but
among them was a thoroughly French paper-bound copy of Alphonse Karr's
Voyage autour de mon Jardin. Falling into an easy chair, the
schoolmaster surrendered himself to the charming style and subtle humour
of this new found treasure.
The lawyer went straight to Mr. Bigglethorpe's store, and found himself,
at the time, its sole customer. The proprietor was an Englishman of some
five and thirty years, tall and thin, wearing a long full beard and
overhanging moustache. He sold fishing tackle and was himself a
fisherman, the latter being the reason why he had come to the Beaver
River and set up store. It occupied him when fishing was poor, and
helped to check the consumption of his capital.
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