"Marjorie," he
asked, "do you think you could find me a pickle bottle, an empty one,
you know?" She thought she could, and at once engaged 'Phosa and 'Phena
in the search for one. A Crosse and Blackwell wide-mouthed bottle,
bearing the label "mixed pickles," which really means gherkins, was
borne triumphantly into the office. Mr. Bigglethorpe handled it
affectionately, and said: "Put on your hat, Marjorie, and we'll go
crawfish hunting." Without rod or line, the fisherman, holding the
pickle bottle in his left hand, and taking Marjorie by the right, walked
down to the creek. On its bank he sat down, and took off his shoes and
socks, an example quickly and joyfully followed by his young companion.
Then he splashed a little water on his head, and she did the same; after
which they waded in the shallow brook, and turned up flat stones in its
bed. Sometimes the crawfish lay quite still, when Mr. Bigglethorpe,
getting his right hand, with extended thumb and forefinger, slily behind
it, grasped the unsuspecting crustacean at the back of his great
nippers, and landed him in the bottle filled with sparkling water.
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