"Sometimes. Sometimes he was a-drinkin' out o' that silver pocket-pistol o' his'n. He got drunk a lot up here; but he didn't drink alone; no'm. There wasn't a stingy hair in his head; he--"
"Do you mean the president?" she said, incredulously, almost angrily.
"Him? Yes'm. Him an' Colonel Hyssop an' Major Brent; they had good times in them days."
"You knew the president _before_ his marriage," she observed, coldly.
"Him? He wasn't never married, miss!" said the old man, scornfully.
"Are you sure?" she asked, with a troubled smile.
"Sure? Yes'm. Why, the last time he was up here, three year come July Fourth, I seen him a-kissin' an' a-huggin' of old man Dawson's darter--"
She was on her feet in a flash. The old man stood there smiling his senile smile and squinting out across the water, absorbed in his garrulous reminiscence.
"Yes'm; all the folks down to the village was fond o' the president, he was that jolly and free, an' no stuck-up city airs; no'm; jest free and easy, an' a-sparkin' the gals with the best o' them--"
The old man laughed and crossed his arms under the barrel of his shot-gun.
"Folks said he might o' married old man Dawson's darter if he'd lived. I dun'no'. I guess it was all fun. But I hear the gal took on awful when they told her he was dead; yes'm."
Towards evening Langham waded across the river, drew in his dripping line, put up his rod, and counted and weighed his fish. Then, lighting a pipe, he reslung the heavy creel across his back and started up the darkening path. From his dripping tweeds the water oozed; his shoes wheezed and slopped at every step; he was tired, soaked, successful--but happy? Possibly.
It was dark when the lighted windows of the lodge twinkled across the hill; he struck out over the meadow, head bent, smoking furiously.
On the steps of the club-house Colonel Hyssop and Major Brent greeted him with the affected heartiness of men who disliked his angling methods; the steward brought out a pan; the fish were uncreeled, reweighed, measured, and entered on the club book.
"Finest creel this year, sir," said the steward, admiringly.
The Major grew purple; the Colonel carefully remeasured the largest fish.
"Twenty-one inches, steward!" he said. "Wasn't my big fish of last Thursday twenty-two?"