Harvey had the skillet and the cornmeal ready and was waiting for the fish. He took them from me and rolled them in the cornmeal and put them in the skillet, and they began to sizzle immediately and shortly began to smell about as good as anything can smell. “They’re fine fat fish,” Harvey said. “Very good bullheads.” “Where’s Pete?” I said. “He got sore and left.” “No wonder. You were a little rough on him, Harvey.” “Do you think so?” “Yes, I do.” “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” “I’m not worried.” “Maybe you wanted him to hang around and hog some of the bullheads and tank up on our beer.” “Say, that reminds me that the beer ought to be good and cold now. Shall I plug a couple of cans to go with the bullheads?” “Maybe you wanted him to stay on and on and simply spoil everything for us.” “Not at all, Harvey. I’m glad he’s gone.” “Then why did you criticize me for being rough on him?” “God-damn it, Harvey, I wasn’t being critical.
