After ten minutes of maneuvering in the water, up and down, out to the bank, then in again, knee deep, waist deep, the line slacked a little, then a little more.  Then there was a series of quick jerks and a long singing of the reel as it unwound, only to slacken again, and this time for good.  There was a silvery streak in the water, then a dark, moving shadow, a gentle pull of the winding line, and the trout slipped out of the water onto the bank, exhausted.

There was an exclamation of joy and wonder from Willis as the fish was carefully unhooked and placed in the cotton bag, brought for the purpose.

“Just eighteen inches, and a beauty,” cried Mr. Allen.  “You’ll never get me away from this stream this morning if there are more fish like this to be had.  We have just time to catch another like him, then we can all have a taste for breakfast.  What will those fellows think when they wake up and find us gone?”

They clambered over a rough crag and down to a second green pool.  It was not a big fish this time, but several small ones in quick succession, till there was a taste for all in camp.

“I hope the fellows will have a fire going, so we won’t have to wait so long for a bed of coals, don’t you?” asked Willis.  “I can taste them already.  Is the meat pink or white?”

“O, surely Ham will have a fire; he’s enough of a camper for that, and they are expecting us to bring fish.  I’ll tell you, let’s leave the bag in the bushes and tell them a sad tale of woe.  I’m still wet, and we’ll let on a big one pulled me in and I lost all the others.  What do you say?”

“That’s a go.  You get up the story and I’ll swear to it.  Make it a big one.”

Soon the smell of smoke came drifting through the bushes, and they knew that their return was being patiently awaited.  Fat spied them coming first.

“Well, old sea-dogs, where’s your catch?” he shouted.

“Hard luck,” started in Mr. Allen.  “Just plain hard luck; caught a few minnows, but slow as far as real fishing goes.  There’s nothing in it here.  Where’s Ham?”

“O Ham!” snorted Phil from his place by the fire.  “Crazy, lunatic Ham.  I’d like to see you get him into any kind of a fix he couldn’t get out of.  When we woke up and found you gone, Ham declared you’d played a trick on him, and he’s gone off to get even.”

“How do you mean, get even?”

“He wanted to go with you this morning, so he went out and found your track going up stream.  He came back to camp, got your fly book, cut him a willow pole, and started off down stream to beat you fishing.  He’s been gone most an hour and a half now.”

“Well, he won’t have to fish much to beat me, that’s sure; but he ought to be getting back soon, so we can get started.”

“Fishie, fishie, in the brook,
Hammie caught him with a hook,”

came drifting into camp from somewhere on the trail.  Soon Ham came into view, a cotton flour sack thrown over his shoulder and a broad grin on his face.  He had left his pole in the thicket.