Jimboy gazed at his lines. Across the river Sandy could make out, in the brilliant sunlight, the gold of wheat-fields and the green of trees on the hills. He wondered if it would be nice to live over there in the country.

“Man alive!” his father cried suddenly, hauling vigorously at one of the lines. “Sure got a real bite now.... Look at this catfish.” From the water he pulled a large flopping lead-colored creature, with a fierce white mouth bleeding and gaping over the hook.

“He’s on my line!” yelled Sandy. “I caught him!”

“Pshaw!” laughed Jimboy. “You was setting there dreaming.”

“No, I wasn’t!”

But just then, at the mills, the five-o’clock whistles blew. “Oh, gee, dad!” cried the boy, frightened. “I was s’posed to go to Mis’ Rice’s to help mama, and I come near forgetting it. She wants to get through early this evenin’ to go to lodge meeting. I gotta hurry and go help her.”

“Well, you better beat it then, and I’ll look out for your line like I been doing and bring the fishes home.”

So the little fellow balanced himself across the jetty, scrambled up the bank, and ran down the railroad track towards town. He was quite out of breath when he reached the foot of Penrose Street, with Mrs. Rice’s house still ten blocks away, so he walked awhile, then ran again, down the long residential street, with its large houses sitting in green shady lawns far back from the sidewalk. Sometimes a sprinkler attached to a long rubber hose, sprayed fountain-like jets of cold water on the thirsty grass. In one yard three golden-haired little girls were playing under an elm-tree, and in another a man and some children were having a leisurely game of croquet.

Finally Sandy turned into a big yard. The delicious scent of frying beefsteak greeted the sweating youngster as he reached the screen of the white lady’s kitchen-door. Inside, Annjee was standing over the hot stove seasoning something in a saucepan, beads of perspiration on her dark face, and large damp spots under the arms of her dress.

“You better get here!” she said. “And me waiting for you for the last hour. Here, take this pick and break some ice for the tea.” Sandy climbed up on a stool and raised the ice-box lid while his mother opened the oven and pulled out a pan of golden-brown biscuits. “Made these for your father,” she remarked. “The white folks ain’t asked for ’em, but they like ’em, too, so they can serve for both.... Jimboy’s crazy about biscuits.... Did he work today?”

“No’m,” said Sandy, jabbing at the ice. “We went fishing.”

At that moment Mrs. Rice came into the kitchen, tall and blond, in a thin flowered gown. She was a middle-aged white woman with a sharp nasal voice.

“Annjee, I’d like the potatoes served just as they are in the casserole. And make several slices of very thin toast for my father. Now, be sure they are thin!”