While Archie was getting their fishing-tackle ready, Frank busied himself in placing on the table in the kitchen such eatables as he could lay his hands on, for he and his cousin were the only ones up.

Their breakfast was eaten in a hurry; and, after drawing on their India-rubber coats—­for Frank said it would rain before they returned—­they slung on their fish-baskets, and took their trout-poles in their hands, and started out.

Dungeon Brook lay about five miles distant, through the woods.  It was a long tramp, over fallen logs and through thick bushes; but it was famous for its large trout, and the boys knew they would be well repaid for their trouble.

In about two hours they arrived at their destination; and, after partaking of a lunch, which Frank had brought, they rigged their “flies,” and Archie went up the brook a little distance, to try a place known among the boys as the “old trout-hole,” while Frank dropped his hook down close to a large log that lay across the stream, near the place where he was standing.  The bait sank slowly toward the bottom, when, suddenly, there was a tremendous jerk, and the line whizzed through the water with a force that bent the tough, elastic pole like a “reed shaken with the wind.”  Frank was a skillful fisherman, and, after a few moments’ maneuvering, a trout weighing between three and four pounds lay floundering on the bank.

Archie soon came up, having been a little more successful, as two good-sized fish were struggling in his basket.

They walked slowly down the brook, stopping now and then to try some favorite spot, and, about three o’clock in the afternoon, they reached the place where the brook emptied into Glen’s Creek, and were about two miles from home.  They had been remarkably successful; their baskets were filled, and they had several “sockdologers” strung on a branch, which they carried in their hands.

After dropping their hooks for a few moments among the perch, at the mouth of the brook, they unjointed their poles, and started toward home, well satisfied with their day’s work.

The next day, as Frank and Archie were on their way to the village, on foot—­the wind being contrary, they could not sail—­they met George and Harry, who had started to pay them a visit.

“Hallo, boys!” exclaimed the former, as soon as they came within speaking distance, “we’ve got news for you.”

“And some that you will not like to hear, Frank,” said Harry, with a laugh.

“What is it?” inquired Archie.

“Why, you know, Charley Morgan, some time since, sent to New York for a couple of sail-boats, a sloop and schooner.  They arrived yesterday, and he thinks they are something great, and says the Speedwell is nowhere.”

“Yes,” chimed in Harry, “he said, when those boats came, he would show us ‘country chaps’ some sailing that would make us open our eyes; but, come to find out, they are perfect tubs.  I saw the sloop coming up the creek, and she made poor headway.  The Alert can beat her all hollow, with only the foresail hoisted.”