"You lazy bum!"
Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream.
I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.
"Let's see that bottle," he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache."
"Let's try it."
The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty.
"That's not such filthy wine," Bill said.
"The cold helps it," I said.
We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch.
"Chicken."
"There's hard-boiled eggs."
"Find any salt?"
"First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that."
"He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday."
"No. Not really?"
"Yes. Bryan's dead."
Bill laid down the egg he was peeling.
"Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg."
"Wonder what day God created the chicken?"
"Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks."
