Meanwhile Orther Lom was dreaming that he could not do better than marry
the Marjorie of his youth and begin housekeeping, in spite of tailors'
bills.
The sun rose bright on Friday morning, and, peeping in upon Mr.
Bigglethorpe in his room and upon Marjorie in the nursery bedroom, awoke
these two early birds. They met on the stairs and came down together.
The fisherman said he thought he would get his things bundled up,
meaning his gun and rods, and walk home to breakfast, but Marjorie said
he just wouldn't, for Eugene was gone, and, if he were to go, she would
have nobody. Well broken in to respect for feminine authority, save when
the fishing fit was on, Mr. Bigglethorpe had to succumb, and travel down
to the creek after crawfish, chub and dace. He told his youthful
companion fishing stories which amused her; and confided to her that he
was going to train up his little boy to be a great fisherman. "Have you
got a little boy, Mr. Biggles?" she asked, and then added: "How funny!"
as if her friend ought to have been content with other people's
children, and fish.
"What is his name, Mr.
Pages:
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614