"Come, boy--let's go fishing. I know a dandy place
about twelve miles from here. We'll coax Martha to fix us up a bite and
start at daylight. What do you say?"
"But I can't!" cried Dan. "Tomorrow is Saturday and I have nothing now
for Sunday morning." He looked toward the waste basket where lay his
sermon on "The Christian Ministry."
"Humph," grunted the Doctor. "You'll find a better one when you get away
from this. Older men than you, Dan, have fought this thing all their
lives. Don't think that you can settle it in a couple of days thinking.
Take time to fish a little; it'll help a lot. There's nothing like a
running stream to clear one's mind and set one's thoughts going in fresh
channels. I want you to see Gordon's Mills. Come boy, let's go fishing."
The evening was spent in preparation, eager anticipation and discussion
of the craft, prompted by the Doctor. And as they overhauled flies and
rods and lines and reels, and recalled the many delightful days spent as
they proposed to spend the morrow, the young man's thoughts were led
away from the first real tragedy of his soul. At daylight, after a
breakfast of their own cooking--partly prepared the night before by
Martha, who unquestionably viewed the minister's going away on a Saturday
with doubtful eyes--they were off.
When they left the town far behind and--following the ridge road in the
clear wine-like air of the early day--entered the woods, the Doctor
laughed aloud as Dan burst forth with a wild boyish yell.
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