They would have to wait till Monday before going, but could return long before the fated hour of 7 P.M.
"Ask for Richardson," said the clerk; "and here, give him my card.
He'll put you on to the good spots; some places are A-1 to-day, and to-morrow in the same place you can't kill a single fish." Condy nudged Blix as the Mentor turned away to get his card.
"Notice that," he whispered: "KILL a fish.

You don't say 'catch,' you say 'kill'-- technical detail." Then they bought their tackle: a couple of cheap reels, lines, leaders, sinkers, a book of assorted flies that the delightful clerk suggested, and a beautiful little tin box painted green, and stenciled with a gorgeous gold trout upon the lid, in which they were to keep the pint of salted shrimps to be used as bait in addition to the flies.

Blix would get these shrimps at a little market near her home.
"But," said the clerk, "you got to get a permit to fish in that lake.
Have you got a pull with the Water Company?
Are you a stockholder ?" Condy's face fell, and Blix gave a little gasp of dismay.

They looked at each other.

Here was a check, indeed.
"Well," said the sublime being in shirt sleeves from behind the counter, "see what you can do; and if you can't make it, come back here an' lemmeno, and we'll fix you up in some other place.