“No, he took it up there for that very purpose. He wanted to catch ’is birds alive, without injury, so ’e c’d sell ’em to the museums an’ menageries. One year he caught seven an’ shipped ’em to the Zoo in Bombay, an’ that’s how that Frenchman I just spoke of happened to try the eggs. They laid ’em in the Zoo and the keeper o’ the Zoo was a friend o’ his. “You askin’ about expecting to find fish up there reminds me that my friend said in ’is letter that another way they had o’ catching the birds was to lay out set lines over the snow with big fish hooks on ’em. They fastened ’em to the jagged rocks an’ left ’em out three or four days. They baited the hooks with frogs they’d brought up from down below. The frogs, of course, froze, but the turkeys would swallow ’em, an’ when the frogs thawed out inside their crops they’d be stuck with the hooks. My friend wrote that one man got three on one line once an’ had a terrible time pullin’ ’em in over the rough ice and snow. They have some awful snow storms up in them mountains. Sometimes it snows for years without let’n up, an’ the snow gits to be half a mile deep, so you see there’s lots of uncertainties.” At this point Bill removed his tattered hat and bowed reverently to Varney. Pop Wilkins remarked that he had often caught turkeys on fish lines, but his custom had been to troll for them through the open fields with spoon hooks, or use a pole and line with a casting bait when the birds were in the trees. Although he had never tried set lines on snow, he had no doubt it would work. The subject was changed, and Sophy, after making her purchase, departed without looking in our direction. “That feller’s the oiliest liar I ever heard,” declared Bill, after Varney had transacted his business and gone, “an’ e’ tells int’restin’ lies, too. It beats me how ’e does ’em. It’s a sort o’ natural gift, like singin’ an’ drawin’ pitchers, an’ I love to hear ’im throw it. Most liars ’ud stop when they seen it wasn’t soakin’ in an’ people was git’n weak, but the Perfessor keeps right on ’till the goose flesh comes. Say, Pop, you an’ me’ll have to ferment sump’n to drown ’im with when ’e blows ’round ’ere ag’in. Let’s tell ’im one that’ll put ’im out o’ business for six months.” “All right, Bill, you be thinkin’ of it. You’re sump’n of a past master yourself. I’m goin’ home to rest. I got enough for one day.” Varney chuckled quietly to himself as he crossed the bridge, for with his story he had woven a web of many meshes, and to it he hoped time would bring valuable spoil. He knew that he could rely on Sophy’s cupidity and insatiable curiosity to “start something,” and when he came again it was his intention to amplify and strengthen the ground work he had laid.