John heaved a sigh at this, and his wife stared with arms akimbo, and both appeared to be wondering if they had capital enough to begin such a course with, or arithmetic enough to carry it through. It was sailing by dead reckoning to them, and they saw not clearly how to make their port so; therefore I suppose they still take life bravely, after their fashion, face to face, giving it tooth and nail, not having skill to split its massive columns with any fine entering wedge, and rout it in detail;⁠—thinking to deal with it roughly, as one should handle a thistle. But they fight at an overwhelming disadvantage⁠—living, John Field, alas! without arithmetic, and failing so.

“Do you ever fish?” I asked. “Oh yes, I catch a mess now and then when I am lying by; good perch I catch.”⁠—“What’s your bait?” “I catch shiners with fishworms, and bait the perch with them.” “You’d better go now, John,” said his wife, with glistening and hopeful face; but John demurred.