end

and carefully, giving out line from time to time, then taking it back. He seemed completely ­absorbed. Not until the fish had been worked close to the dock was there a brief minor commotion near the surface. Then McAllen was down on one knee, holding the rod high with one hand, reaching out for his catch with the other. Barney had a glimpse of an unimpressive green and silver disk, reddish froggy eyes. “Very nice crappie,” McAllen informed him with a broad smile. “Now—” He placed the rod on the dock, reached down with his other hand. The fish’s tail slapped the water; it turned sideways, was gone.
“Lost it!” Barney commented, surprised.
“Huh?” McAllen looked around. “Well, no, young man—I turned him loose. He wasn’t hooked bad. Crappies have delicate lips, but I use a barbless hook. Gives them better than a fighting chance.” He stood up with the rod, dusting the knees of his baggy slacks. “Get all the eating fish I want anyway,” he added.
“You really enjoy that sport, don’t you?” Barney said curiously.
McAllen advised him with the seriousness of the true devotee to try it some time. “It gets to you. It can get to be a way of living. I’ve been fishing since I was ­knee-high. Three years ago I figured I’d ­become good enough to write a book on the subject. I got more arguments over that book—sounder arguments too, I’d say—than about any paper I’ve published in physics.” He looked at Barney a moment; still seriously, and went on. “I told you wetting a line would calm me down after that upset you gave me. Well, it has—fishing is as good a form of therapy as I h