"I’d like it," I answered, which he knew well enough. "Well, then, suppose you be at the inlet at four—that is, if your cousin can spare you," he added, winking, and glancing in the direction of the house. "What kind of bait shall I get?" I asked, disregarding his reference to Cousin Angeline. "Oh, anything. If you could lay hold of a frog, though, we might get a bass or pickerel, maybe; but pork or worms will do for cat and suckers, and they are good enough fishing for me." "All right; I’ll be there with what I can find," I answered, as he walked away. Like all good-natured men, Cousin Rolland was very fond of this kind of sport, and without much, if any, reference to the weather, though if favorable, as in the present instance, he never failed to make it an excuse. Fishing, indeed, was the one thing in our lives from which we derived unalloyed pleasure, albeit partaken of surreptitiously and with fear and trembling as regards Cousin Angeline, who looked upon such things as weak and frivolous, and not to be countenanced, much less encouraged. The ground we most frequented was a little inlet below the town, near where the Sacs and Foxes once had their home, though for pickerel and bass we often went as far as the juncture of the two rivers, some way off. Hid away in the little cove I have mentioned, Cousin Rolland kept a boat, which I was privileged to use when I could steal away; and this was much oftener than one would think, because of Cousin Angeline’s frequent absences from home in pursuance of her many charitable labors. When Cousin Rolland’s work permitted, he would join me, and loosing our little craft, we pulled into the quiet bay in search of such sport as the day afforded. This, however, without hope of any great catch as regards number or quality of fish, but with many idle comments regarding the water and nature of the bait and other things of that kind, such as fishermen are given to.