"Why, it would be the very best kind of fun, but--" "Well, then, come along." They took a downtown car.
"I've got a couple of split bamboo rods," he explained as the car slid down the terrific grade of the Washington-Street hill.

"I haven't used 'em in years--not since we lived East; but they're hand-made, and are tip-top.

I haven't any other kind of tackle; but it's just as well, because the tackle will all depend upon where we are going to fish." "Where's that ?" "Don't know yet; am going down now to find out." He took her down to the principal dealer in sporting goods on Market Street.

It was a delicious world, whose atmosphere and charm were not to be resisted.

There were shot-guns in rows, their gray barrels looking like so many organ-pipes; sheaves of fishing-rods, from the four-ounce whisp of the brook-trout up to the rigid eighteen-ounce lance of the king-salmon and sea-bass; showcases of wicked revolvers, swelling by calibres into the thirty-eight and forty-four man-killers of the plainsmen and Arizona cavalry; hunting knives and dirks, and the slender steel whips of the fencers; files of Winchesters, sleeping quietly in their racks, waiting patiently for the signal to speak the one grim word they knew; swarms of artificial flies of every conceivable shade, brown, gray, black, gray-brown, gray-black, with here and there a brisk vermilion note; coils of line, from the thickness of a pencil, spun to hold the sullen plunges of a jew-fish off the Catalina Islands, down to the sea-green gossamers that a vigorous fingerling might snap; hooks, snells, guts, leaders, gaffs, cartridges, shells, and all the entrancing munitions of the sportsman, that savored of lonely canons, deer-licks, mountain streams, quail uplands, and the still reaches of inlet and marsh grounds, gray and cool in the early autumn dawn.
Condy and Blix got the attention of a clerk, and Condy explained.
"I want to go fishing--we want to go fishing.