He's liable to wake up some day and find himself without his practice." He got his fly-book from the basket swinging at his left hip, opened it, turned the leaves with the caressing touch one gives to a cherished thing, and very carefully placed the fly upon the page where it belonged; gazed gloatingly down at the tiny, tufted hooks, with their frail-looking five inches of gut leader, and then returned the book fondly to the basket.
"Think I'll go on down to the Harts'," he said, "so as to be that much closer to the stream.

Daylight is going to find me whipping the riffles, Peter.

You won't come along?
You better.

Plenty of--ah--snake medicine," he hinted, chuckling so that the whole, deep chest of him vibrated.

"No?
Well, you can let me have a horse, I suppose--that cow-backed sorrel will do--he's gentle, I know.