All were willing, and soon the vicinity was left far behind.  Then they came to where a fair sized brook flowed into Bass Lake, and here they came to anchor and began to fish, while Powell took several photographs.

“I have always found it good fishing near a brook like that,” said Tom.  “The fish come around looking for food from the brook.”

Tom’s remark was evidently true, for in less than an hour each of the boys had a good sized string of fish to his credit.

In the excitement of the sport the cadets forgot all about the adventure with the snakes, nor did they pay much attention to the flight of time until Fred Garrison glanced at his watch.

“Gee Christopher!” he ejaculated.

“What time is it?” asked Powell.

“Half-past four.”

“And we promised to be back at five-thirty!” put in Sam.  “We’ll have to hustle, fellows.”

“Oh, we can get back in an hour easily enough,” put in Tom.

“But we’ve got to clean out the boat and clean up ourselves,” came from Fred.  “Come, fellows, wind up and put away your hooks and poles.”

He started and the others followed.  Then Fred and Powell took the oars, and the return to camp was begun.  Not caring to go back the same way they had come, they sped along the opposite shore of the lake, where were located several coves and cliffs of rock.

“This is as pretty as the other shore,” remarked Songbird.  And he began: 

“Oh, dreamy days in summer time,
   When purling brooks and shady nooks—­”

“If you start up again I’ll jump overboard,” interrupted Tom.

“Do so, you need a cooling off,” grunted Powell; but that was the end of the poetry for the time being.

They were just passing one of the coves when they caught sight of a man sitting on an overhanging tree, fishing.

“Hullo, what luck?” cried Fred, good-naturedly.

“Fair,” was the somewhat surly answer.  Then, as the man caught sight of the others in the boat, he turned his head away.

“That fellow looks familiar to me,” ejaculated Sam, in sudden and strong excitement.

“And he looks familiar to me, too,” exclaimed Tom.

“Do you think it is Arnold Baxter?”

“If it isn’t, it’s his double,” went on Tom.  “Row the boat over quick, boys.”

“Who is this Arnold Baxter?  The father of Dan Baxter?” questioned Fred.

“The same, Fred.”

“The fellow who escaped from prison, or the hospital?” asked Powell.

“That’s the chap.”

Without delay the rowboat was turned in toward the overhanging tree.

Scarcely had this been done when the fisherman pulled in his line with all speed, took up his string of fish and ran into the bushes between two cliffs of rocks.

“He is getting out, and in a hurry too!” said Fred.

“Hi, there, stop!  We want to talk to you!” sang out Tom, at the top of his lungs.