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"It makes me savage every time I go down to the Beach," chimed in Dan, "when I see them city folks, who ain't a cent's worth better than I be, wearing their good clothes, and walking around with their fine guns and fish-poles on their shoulders—"

"Like them over there," said his father, nodding his head toward the bank, which was now but a short distance away.

Dan faced about on his seat, and took a good look at the party in question.

There were ninety cents in the load instead of eighty. There were three sportsmen in brown hunting-suits, who were walking restlessly about as if they did not know what to do with themselves, and they had a double team, with a negro to drive it.

With them were half a dozen setters and pointers, which were exercising their muscles by racing up and down the bank.

The sight of the negro set the ferryman's tongue in motion again, while the good clothes the strangers wore had about the same effect upon Dan that a piece of red cloth is supposed to have upon a pugnacious turkey gobbler.