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Updated: May 20, 2025
The tall figure stooped abruptly, fumbled in a battered basket which held a miscellaneous assemblage of bait, throwlines, newspapers, and food, and drew forth a handful of the diminutive fish. "Yeah, boy," he smiled. Silvey offered the two coppers in payment. "Keep 'em, boy, keep 'em," with an indignant glance at the imperturbable fish monopolist. "I ain't like some folks."
At John's corner, a party of voluble loafers joked noisily as they unwound long, many-hooked throwlines and jointed nondescript rods. Beside Bill, a phlegmatic Scandinavian puffed morosely at an empty pipe. Just beyond, a fat negress shifted her bulk from time to time as she baited the hooks on one of her husband's numerous fishing outfits.
As they passed the first of his multitude of throwlines and poles, John leaned forward and peered down on the water. "Look, Sil," he pointed at the long string of perch which floated to and fro with the sluggish water. "Aren't they peaches?" He made a motion as if to joint his rod. The cripple drew a sharp, hissing breath from between thick, distorted lips and waved him away.
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