“All right,” responded Ruth, still meekly, but with dancing eyes.

The fishing place was reached and while yet the early rays of the sun fell aslant the dimpling pools under the dam, the two threw in their baited hooks.  Curly evidently expected to see the girl balk at the bait, but Ruth seized firmly the fat, squirmy worm and impaled it scientifically upon her hook.

She caught the first fish, too!  In fact, as the morning drew leisurely along, Ruth’s string splashing in the cool water grew much faster than Curly’s.

“I never saw the beat of your luck!” declared the boy.  “You must have been fishing before, Ruth Fielding.”

“Lots of times.”

“Where?”

Ruth told him of the Red Mill on the bank of the Lumano, of her fishing trips with Tom Cameron, and of all the fun that they had about Cheslow, and up the river above the mill.

Mid-forenoon came and Curly produced some crackers and a piece of bologna.  The doughnuts he had pocketed were gone long ago.

“Have a bite, Ruth?” he said generously.  “I wish it was better, but I didn’t have much money, and Gran won’t ever let me carry any lunch.  She says the proper place for a boy to eat is at his own table.  It’s there for me, and if I don’t get home to get it, then I can do without.”

Ruth accepted a piece of the bologna and the crackers gravely.  She baited her hook with a piece of the bologna and caught a big, struggling carp.

“What do you know about that?” cried Curly, in disgust.  “You could bait your hook with a marble and catch a whopper, I believe!”

Meanwhile, Ruth was having a most delightful time.  The roses had come back into her cheeks at the first.  Her eyes sparkled, and she “wriggled all over,” as she expressed it, “with just the feel of spring.”

She did not spend all her time fishing, but ran about and examined the early plants and sprouting bushes, and woke up the first violets and searched for May flowers, which, of course, she did not find.  Squirrels chattered at them, and a blue jay hung about, squalling, evidently hoping for crumbs from their lunch.  Only there were no crumbs of Curly’s frugal bologna and crackers left.

When the sun was in mid-heaven the boy confessed to being as hungry as ever, and tightened his belt.  “Crackers don’t stick to your ribs much,” he grumbled.

Ruth calmly began opening her box.  Curly looked at her askance.

“You aren’t figgering on going home now, are you?” he asked.

“Oh, no.  I sha’n’t go home till you do.”

Then she produced from the box sandwiches, deviled eggs, a jelly roll, a jar of peanut butter, crackers, olives, and some more of Mrs. Smith’s good doughnuts.

“Old Scratch!” Curly ejaculated.  “You’re the best fellow to go fishing with, Ruth Fielding, that I ever saw.  You can come to my parties any time you like.”