“Fish, fish, fish—­little, big, and in between,” he cried as he waved the bag in front of him.  “I’ve never had such fishing.”

“Hurrah for the fisherman,” called Chuck, as he came through the trees with a half-dozen small pails in his hands.  “Ham gets the fish, I get the berries, and we all get the stomach-ache, see?”

“Let’s look at the fish” shouted every one.

“Bet they are only minnies,” cried Phil.

“Minnies, your grandmother,” scornfully replied Ham.  “I have one there that’s a foot and a half long if it’s an inch.  The others aren’t so big.”  He emptied the contents of the bag on the ground and stood proudly over them, a merry twinkle in his eye.

Willis nudged Mr. Allen.  “He’s found our bag of fish, but don’t tell.”  Mr. Allen arose, and, holding up the big fish by the tail, said, “Ham, you’re the only original fisherman.  That’s the very fellow that pulled me in and came near drowning me.”  Ham hurried off to the stream to clean the catch and to laugh over his cleverness.  Breakfast was a thoroughly enjoyed meal that morning, for, besides the fish and the sweet wild berries, there were just enough fish stories told to give the real thing the proper seasoning.

“I’d rather sit on those big boulders along Goose Creek, just where it empties into the backwaters of Cheeseman Dam, and catch a few big fellows like that one than to take an extended trip to Europe,” solemnly declared Ham.

“I’d rather fish in the Narrows of Platte Canyon and pull out a fine big rainbow every now and then than ride in a New York subway,” added Chuck.

“And I’d rather see Mr. Allen catch another big trout like that one you’re eating,” remarked Willis, with a wink at Mr. Allen, “than to catch all the bass in the State of Michigan.”

By nine o’clock the party was again on the trail, traveling northwest around the base of Black Mountain.

“It’s going to be a scorcher,” exclaimed Fat.  “I’m about melted already.  I hope they haven’t shipped that bear away from Cather Springs yet.  I’d like to see it.  They caught it in a bear trap last week.  There is hardly a season goes by, any more, but what they get some kind of wild game.  Last year it was a big mountain lion, the year before it was a badly-wounded mountain sheep, this year it was a bear and two cubs.”

“That lion must have been the one that followed Ham up Pike’s Peak.  How about it, Ham?” said Mr. Allen teasingly.  Ham did not reply.  The smile disappeared from his face, and he dropped to the back of the line.  “Ham, won’t you tell us that story some time?” urged Mr. Allen.  “I’ve never heard the real story, and I’d like to know about it.”

“I’ve forgotten every detail, Mr. Allen,” said Ham, “and I’ve forgotten them for good.  It wasn’t nearly as big a joke as every one supposed, though, I’ll tell you that.  I’ll never come any nearer to handing in my heavenly passport and not do it than I did that time.  Let’s forget it.  It brings back unpleasant thoughts.”