'
'Oh,' frowning. 'She doesn't want to go and sit on my grave, or any of
that tosh, does she? As if I were there!'
'No, no,' hastily; 'she goes ratting, Dick.'
'Good old Fido!'
'Dick, here's a good one. We oughtn't to keep a dog at all because we
are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate yesterday?'
'Let me guess. The joint?'
'Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook's meat tickets.'
They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, 'That dog will
be the death of me.' his father shivers. Dick does not notice this; his
eyes have drawn him to the fishing-rods.
'Hullo!'
'Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.'
'Here's the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I got the
seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren't there. That was
a day. It was really only six and three-quarters. I put a stone in
its mouth the second time we weighed it!'
'You loved fishing, Dick.'
'Didn't I? Why weren't you oftener with me? I'll tell you a funny thing,
When I went a soldiering I used to pray--just standing up, you
know--that I shouldn't lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward
for casting.
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