“Huh!” gasped Chub, his thumb on the reel. “That pleased you, didn’t it? Come on, now.”
But Mister Trout didn’t want to come on. Instead, he had hidden himself amongst the submerged roots of the trees. Chub wound in a foot or two of line very gingerly, trying to coax the trout into deep water, and the ruse succeeded. With a rush the fish darted from concealment and sped upstream. But Chub brought him up with a turn that made the line sing. Then he began to reel in. The trout fought valiantly and made a good deal of trouble considering his size, and there were one or two anxious moments for Chub. But in the end the victory was his, and back among the stones lay the speckled beauty. It was a good ten inches long and Chub beamed with delight. Now he could go home!
When he had secured his prize on a forked branch he released the other grasshopper from the pocket of his fly-book.
“You’ve had a narrow escape,” he said, as the hopper flounced bewildered away, “and considering the chase you led me I ought to feed you to the fishes, too. But I won’t. Go on home, and don’t bat your silly brains out against the rocks like that.”
At five o’clock Roy and Dick, who were beginning to get anxious about Chub, beheld that young gentleman approaching camp. He had his rod in hand, but no fish were in sight.
“Thunder!” said Dick. “I’ll wager he’s mad!”
“Caught it and cooked it, of course. Say, he was a dandy! He was as long--”
“Never mind about that,” laughed Roy. “You wash the dishes just the same. You were to bring the fish home, you know.”
“Well, but I had to have something to eat, didn’t I?” asked Chub, with a grin.
“That wasn’t in the bargain,” answered Dick. “You’re dish-washer to-night.” Chub stepped aboard, reached under his coat, and laid his trout on the railing.
“Is that so, Dickums?” he asked quickly. The others stared a moment. Then,
“What day of the month is this?” demanded Roy.
“We need a calendar,” said Roy, looking vaguely about the cabin. “But whether it’s the fourteenth or fifteenth, fellows, we ought to write to Harry. She’s going home the twentieth and we promised to be there in three weeks. That would be the twenty-first.”
“That’s so,” said Chub. “We’ve only got seven more days. You write, Roy, like a good chap.”