Becky Thatcher didn't share all her secrets with Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Like all good fisherfolk, she kept the location of her favorite fishing hole quite to herself. There, on a summer afternoon when the water was warm, she could catch bass and perch to her heart's content, or linger into the evening hours to bait up a big catfish from its lair below a fallen tree. Oh, she was cautious of the boys, always checking behind her as she made her way through the tall meadow grass and into the forest verge. It was no easy bushwhack, two miles or more, and that in a skirt she'd promised to keep clean for school. With a basket packed with a lunch of cookies and a jar of wriggling angleworms, Becky was set to stay until suppertime. "Just one more cast," she'd say, in the manner of the true fisherman who knows you can't go home when the bite is on.
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