It was about a mile from the house we saw him, sitting on the edge of the slough. It hadn’t had a fish in it never that I knowed. He looked around at us, his eyes round and calm, his face dirty, the pole across his knees. Cora was still singing.
“This ain’t no good day to fish,” I said. “You come on home with us and me and you’ll go down to the river first thing in the morning and catch some fish.”
“It’s one in here,” he said. “Dewey Dell seen it.”
“You come on with us. The river’s the best place.”
“It’s in here,” he said. “Dewey Dell seen it.”
“I’m bounding toward my God and my reward,” Cora sung.