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So Red Shirt and Clown were fishing fertilisers with vim and vigor. As for me, one goruki was enough and I laid down myself on the bottom, and looked up at the sky. This was far more dandy than fishing. Then the two began whispering. I could not hear well, nor did I care to. I was looking up at the sky and thinking about Kiyo.
Well, I should say! For some time, Red Shirt and Clown fished assiduously and within about an hour they caught about fifteen fish. The funny part of it was that all they caught were goruki; of sea-bream there was not a sign.
"Splendid for the first honor, but that's goruki," Clown again made a "fresh" remark. "Goruki sounds like the name of a Russian literator," said Red Shirt. "Yes, just like a Russian literator," Clown at once seconded Red Shirt. This Red Shirt has a bad hobby of marshalling before anybody the name of foreigners. Everybody has his specialty. Red Shirt should have been a little more considerate.
"This is a day of bumper crop of Russian literature," Red Shirt said, and Clown answered: "When one as skilled as you gets nothing but goruki, it's natural for me to get nothing else." The boatman told me that this small-sized fish goruki has too many tiny bones and tastes too poor to be fit for eating, but they could be used for fertilising.
If it was a mental consolation to fish fertilisers on the sea, have goruki for Russian literature, or to pose a favorite geisha beneath pine tree, it would be quite as much a mental consolation to eat dempura noodle and swallow dango. Instead of dwelling on such sham consolations, he would find his time better spent by washing his red shirts.
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