"This is simply ripping," murmured one, who lay on his back with a battered Panama over his eyes, "we are doing ourselves up to the top hole, I don't think. Heavenly, ain't it?" "It would be, if you did not chatter," retorted the other, fixing a fly on his line; "why do you desecrate this beauty with slang?" "Because I'm not a poet like you to spout blank verse." "There is a medium between mutilation of the language and pedantic usage thereof." "Huh!" with scorn, "who's pedantic now?" "My dear Tod, as a lawyer, you should use better English." "It is only a barrister who requires a superfine jaw," retorted Tod elegantly, "and I'm only a solicitor of sorts. Don't worry, Haskins." Aware of the futility of argument, the other man merely shrugged his square shoulders and threw a skilful line in a pool wherein lurked a famous wary trout. The fly fell lightly on the water, and would have deceived any fish but the trout in question. There was no response to his dilly-duck-come-and-be-killed invitation, and the angler made another cast with still less success as the fly hit the stream heavily, scaring the trout into retreat. Haskins said one word under his breath, but Tod overheard and giggled. That was exactly like Tod Macandrew: he had no sense of the fitness of things. "Silly ass!" commented his friend savagely, spinning up the line, "you frighten the fish." "Not on to your hook, anyhow," chuckled Tod into the depths of his hat, "what a sinfully bad angler you are, Jerry." "As bad an angler as you are a lover, perhaps," snapped Gerald, throwing his rod on the grass and squatting to manufacture a cigarette. Tod sat up abruptly with a wounded air. "I call that beastly: to taunt a chap, because a girl won't bite." "Won't kiss, you mean." "I'm taking an illustration from your infernal angling," said Tod, with aggressive dignity. "If you were a lover yourself you would understand." "Oh, I understand well enough," replied the other lightly: he paused to run his tongue along the tissue paper, then added calmly: "I was in love with Charity Bird myself, before you came along, Tod." "Well, now that I have come along, perhaps you'll call her Miss Bird." "Right oh! Miss Bird in the hand is worth two----" "There are not two," interrupted Macandrew indignantly, "but only one schoolgirl cousin. As if," cried Tod to the woods, "I would sell myself." Gerald Haskins cast a sly look on Tod's ungraceful figure. "I see: you present yourself to Miss Bird as a desirable gift?" "Well, she wouldn't have you as a gift, anyhow, for all your _Family Herald_ good looks, and halfpenny journal fame." "Notoriety, Tod, notoriety only. A volume of verse, a book of stories and a dozen of essays do not give me the right to class myself along with the immortals. I'm a failure at thirty, Tod--in my own eyes, I mean. Think of that, Tod, a failure at thirty." "Don't chuck it," advised Macandrew politely, "you may be a success at forty."