They had been swimming, and knew the best diving-hole in the
world, only a couple of miles away. They had dined on berries, and
expected to catch it when they got home, but meant to attend a show
in one of their barns that afternoon, the admission price being ten
pins. Bobaday learned how to make a slip-knot with the horse-hair and
hold it in silent suspense just where the minnows moved: the moment a
fish glided into the open snare a dexterous jerk whipped him out of
the water, held firmly about the middle by the hair noose. It
required skill and nice handling, and the split-sleeved boy was the
most accomplished snarer of all.
[Illustration: BOBADAY LUNCHES WITH STRANGE BOYS.]
Robert shared his lunch with these youths, and parted from them
reluctantly when the horses were put in. But aunt Corinne who stood
by in a critical attitude, said she couldn't see any use in catching
such little fish. You never fried minnies. You used 'em for bait in
deep water, though, the split-sleeved boy condescended to inform her,
and you _could_ put 'em into a glass jar, and they'd grow like
everything. Aunt Corinne was just becoming fired with anxiety to own
such a jarful herself, when the carriage turned toward the road and
her mother obliged her to climb in.
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