“Yes’m,” said Sandy, keeping his eyes closed to the bright stream of morning sunlight entering the window. But half an hour later, when Jimboy kicked him and said: “Hey, bo! You wanta go fishin’?” he got up at once, slid into his pants; and together they went out in the garden to dig worms. It was seldom that his father took him anywhere, and, of course, he wanted to go. Sandy adored Jimboy, but Jimboy, amiable and indulgent though he was, did not often care to be bothered with his ten-year-old son on his fishing expeditions.

Harriett had gone to her job, and Hager had long been at the tubs under the apple-tree when the two males emerged from the kitchen-door. “Huh! You ain’t workin’ this mawnin’, is you?” the old woman grunted, bending steadily down, then up, over the wash-board.

“Nope,” her tall son-in-law answered. “Donahoe laid me off yesterday on account o’ the white bricklayers said they couldn’t lay bricks with a nigger.”

“Always something to keep you from workin’,” panted Hager.

“Sure is,” agreed Jimboy pleasantly. “But don’t worry, me and Sandy’s gonna catch you a mess o’ fish for supper today. How’s that, ma?”

“Don’t need no fish,” the old woman answered. “An’ don’t come ma-in’ me! Layin’ round here fishin’ when you ought to be out makin’ money to take care o’ this house an’ that chile o’ your’n.” The suds rose foamy white about her black arms as the clothes plushed up and down on the zinc wash-board. “Lawd deliver me from a lazy darky!”

But Jimboy and Sandy were already behind the tall corn, digging for bait near the back fence.

“Don’t never let no one woman worry you,” said the boy’s father softly, picking the moist wriggling worms from the upturned loam. “Treat ’em like chickens, son. Throw ’em a little corn and they’ll run after you, but don’t give ’em too much. If you do, they’ll stop layin’ and expect you to wait on ’em.”

“Will they?” asked Sandy.

The warm afternoon sun made the river a languid sheet of muddy gold, glittering away towards the bridge and the flour-mills a mile and a half off. Here in the quiet, on the end of a rotting jetty among the reeds, Jimboy and his son sat silently. A long string of small silver fish hung down into the water, keeping fresh, and the fishing-lines were flung far out in the stream, waiting for more bites. Not a breeze on the flat brown-gold river, not a ripple, not a sound. But once the train came by behind them, pouring out a great cloud of smoke and cinders and shaking the jetty.

“That’s Number Five,” said Jimboy. “Sure is flyin’,” as the train disappeared between rows of empty box-cars far down the track, sending back a hollow clatter as it shot past the flour-mills, whose stacks could be dimly seen through the heat haze. Once the engine’s whistle moaned shrilly.

“She’s gone now,” said Jimboy as the last click of the wheels died away. And, except for the drone of a green fly about the can of bait, there was again no sound to disturb the two fishermen.