The pool had been stirred, partly by the
inexpert pokings of the fishermen and partly by small clods and bits
of dirt dislodged from above by the feet of the audience. The water,
consequently, was but brownly translucent and revealed its secrets
reluctantly; nevertheless certain dim little shapes had been observed
to move within it, and were still there. Ramsey failed to see them at
first.
"Where's any ole fish?" he inquired, scornfully.
"Oh, my goodness!" Heinie Krusemeyer moaned. "_Can't_ you shut up?"
"Look!" whispered the girl who stood nearest to Ramsey. She pointed.
"There's one. Right down there by Willis's hook. Don't you see him?"
Ramsey was impressed enough to whisper. "Is there? I don't see him. I
can't--"
The girl came closer to him, and, the better to show him, leaned out
over the edge of the bank, and, for safety in maintaining her balance,
rested her left hand upon his shoulder while she pointed with her right.
Thereupon something happened to Ramsey. The touch upon his shoulder was
almost nothing, and he had never taken the slightest interest in Milla
Rust (to whom that small warm hand belonged), though she was the class
beauty, and long established in the office.
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