The old angler did not suffer--we were so glad
of that! But he did not appear to know us, and his talk seemed
strange. It rambled on quietly, softly, like one of his own
mountain brooks, babbling of green fields, of sunny summer days, of
his favorite sport, and ah! of other things. But he was not
speaking to us. A sudden, awed hush and thrill came over us as,
bending to catch the low words, we all at once understood what only
the bishop put into words as he said, half to himself, in a sudden,
quick, broken whisper, "God bless the man, he 's talking to his
Master!"
"Yes. sir, that 's so," went on the quiet voice; "'t was on'y a
dog sure nuff; 'twa'n't even a boy, as ye say, an' ye ast me to be
a fisher o' men. But I haint had no chance for that, somehow;
mebbe I wa'n't fit for 't. I 'm on'y jest a poor old fisherman,
Fishin' Jimmy, ye know, sir. Ye useter call me James--no one else
ever done it. On'y a dog? But he wa'n't jest a common dog, sir;
he was a fishin' dog. I never seed a man love fishin' mor 'n
Dash.
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