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“You don’t seem to think much of this fine trout that I took such trouble to catch,” I remarked.

“You mean,” said the elder girl, with a laugh, “that you bought of Barney Sloat.”

I looked at her in astonishment.

“Barney was along here to-day,” she said, “and he told about your buying your fish of him.”

“Bought of him!” I exclaimed, indignantly. “A little string of fish at the bottom of the basket I bought of him, but all the others, and this big one, I caught myself.”

“Oh, of course,” said the pretty daughter, “bought the little ones and caught all the big ones!”

“Barney Sloat ought to have kept his mouth shut,” said the younger pretty daughter, looking at me with an expression of pity. “He’d got his money, and he hadn’t no business to go telling on people. Nobody likes that sort of thing. But this big fish is a real nice one, and you shall have it for your supper.”

“Thank you,” I said, with dignity, and left the room.

I did not intend to have any further words with these young women on this subject, but I cannot deny that I was annoyed and mortified. This was the result of a charitable action. I think I was never more proud of anything than of catching that trout; and it was a good deal of a downfall to suddenly find myself regarded as a mere city man fishing with a silver hook. But, after all, what did it matter?

The boy who did not seem to be accounted a member of the family came into the house, and as he passed me he smiled good-humoredly, and said: “Buyed ’em!”

I felt like throwing a chair at him, but refrained out of respect to my host. Before supper the old man came out on to the porch where I was sitting. “It seems,” said he, “that my gals has got it inter their heads that you bought that big fish of Barney Sloat, and as I can’t say I seed you ketch it, they’re not willin’ to give in, ‘specially as I didn’t git no such big one. ‘Tain’t wise to buy fish when you’re goin’ fishin’ yourself. It’s pretty certain to tell agen you.”

“You ought to have given me that advice before,” I said, somewhat shortly. “You saw me buy the fish.”

“You don’t s’pose,” said old Peter, “that I’m goin’ to say anythin’ to keep money out of my neighbor’s pockets. We don’t do that way in these parts. But I’ve told the gals they’re not to speak another word about it, so you needn’t give your mind no worry on that score. And now let’s go in to supper. If you’re as hungry as I am, there won’t be many of them fish left fur breakfast.”

That evening, as we were sitting smoking on the porch, old Peter’s mind reverted to the subject of the unfounded charge against me. “It goes pretty hard,” he remarked, “to have to stand up and take a thing you don’ like when there’s no call fur it. It’s bad enough when there is a call fur it. That matter about your fish buyin’ reminds me of what happened two summers ago to my sister, or ruther to her two little boys–or, more correct yit, to one of ’em. Them was two cur’ous little boys. They was allus tradin’ with each other. Their father deals mostly in horses, and they must have got it from him. At the time I’m tellin’ of they’d traded everythin’ they had, and when they hadn’t nothin’ else left to swap they traded names. Joe he took Johnny’s name, and Johnny he took Joe’s. Jist about when they’d done this, they both got sick with sumthin’ or other, the oldest one pretty bad, the other not much. Now there ain’t no doctor inside of twenty miles of where my sister lives. But there’s one who sometimes has a call to go through that part of the country, and the people about there is allus very glad when they chance to be sick when he comes along. Now this good luck happened to my sister, fur the doctor come by jist at this time. He looks into the state of the boys, and while their mother has gone downstairs he mixes some medicine he has along with him. ‘What’s your name?’ he says to the oldest boy when he’d done it. Now as he’d traded names with his brother, fair and square, he wasn’t goin’ back on the trade, and he said, ‘Joe.’ ‘And my name’s Johnny,’ up and says the other one. Then the doctor he goes and gives the bottle of medicine to their mother, and says he: ‘This medicine is fur Joe. You must give him a tablespoonful every two hours. Keep up the treatment, and he’ll be all right. As fur Johnny, there’s nothin’ much the matter with him. He don’t need no medicine.’ And then he went away.