“Enough?” exclaimed Dave. “We want something to eat besides fish.”
“Oh, I mean enough to sell,” replied Clem gently.
“You catching fish to sell! That’s good! Say, I never supposed the sun was hot enough to addle your thinker this morning. I’ll have to toss you in the bay to cool you off.”
“Won’t matter, brother, I’m going to jump in as soon as the tide gets up a little higher, so there.”
The young man put his shoulder against the loaded tram and started it along the iron rails toward the log warehouse. Clementine walked alongside, helping push. For a dozen paces she whistled a popular tune, then came another question.
“How much do fishermen make, Dave?”
“Maybe ten to fifteen dollars a day—maybe fifteen cents.”
“Why the difference?”
“Some people can catch fish, I guess, and some can
