There’s nothing puts himself in a fine humor like a good string of trout on his breakfast table.” The boys’ catch dangled from Daniel’s hand in a shimmering iridescent bundle. “Can I carry ’em?” Ethan’s voice echoed as they stepped from the dusty road into the cool darkness of the covered bridge. It couldn’t have been a more perfect afternoon—an afternoon with no less than two miracles in it. Silas had granted the boys an unexpected afternoon holiday, and Ethan had caught the biggest fish of the lot. “You’ll drag ’em in the dust and spoil ’em.” “I will not!” “Your arms’ll get tired. You can carry ’em when we get nearer home.” “I can do it.” Daniel whirled, and Ethan found the end of the Irish boy’s fishing pole poised against his chest. “Have at you, now,” Daniel said, curling his lip in a teasing sneer. Ethan blinked. “Have what?” The pole drooped as Daniel sighed and rolled his eyes. “It’s what they say in that peddler’s book of plays.”
