He was worried as to the way George
would turn out when he grew up.
This particular trout-rod, however, had an attraction for Langshaw of
long standing. He had examined it carefully more than once when in the
shop with his neighbour, Wickersham; it wasn't a fifty-dollar rod, of
course, but it seemed in some ways as good as if it were--it was
expensive enough for him! He had spoken of it once to his wife, with a
craving for her usual sympathy, only to meet with a surprise that seemed
carelessly disapproving.
"Why, you have that old one of your father's and the bass-rod already; I
can't see why you should want another. You always say you can't get off
to go fishing as it is."
He couldn't explain that to have this particular split bamboo would be
almost as good as going on a fishing trip; with it in his hand he could
feel himself between green meadows, the line swirling down the rushing
brook. But later Clytie had gone back to the subject with pondering
consideration.
"Ten dollars seems an awful price for a rod! I'm sure I could buy the
same thing for much less uptown; wouldn't you like me to see about it
some day?"
"Great Scott! Never think of such a thing!" he had replied in horror.
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