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"You don't like Cloudbrow," remarked the man with an inquiring glance over the rim of his mug. "Why you not like him?" "Hee! hee!" was Slowfoot's lucid reply. Then, with an unwonted frown on her mild visage, she added with emphasis "No! I not like him." "I know that," returned the husband, setting down his mug and resuming his pipe, "but why?"
Again La Certe broke the piscatorial spell that had settled down on them, and, taking up the thread of discourse where he had dropped it, repeated his statement that he had been wondering for a long time why Cloudbrow, alias young Duncan McKay, was so sharp and fierce in denying that he knew anything about the murder of Henri Perrin. "Hee! hee!" was Slowfoot's significant reply.
But if it do I cannot help that. Cloudbrow could not ask me to pay for what the wind does." There came another gust of such violence, as he spoke, that even Slowfoot's benignant expression changed to a momentary glance of anxiety, for the shingles on the roof rattled, and the rafters creaked as if the hut were groaning under the strain.
The disappearance of Slowfoot's float at this moment stopped her swearing, and brought the conversation to an abrupt end. The landing of another goldeye prevented its resumption.
"Now, behold! my friend a-wheesht!" said La Certe, sneezing a bass accompaniment to Slowfoot's treble. "I will give you a catfish a whole catfish for a-wheesht! for that box and snuff." The Switzer shook his head. "Nay," he said. "The snuff you may have, but the box was the gift of a friend, and I am loath to part with it. Besides, the box is of little real value."
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