By the constable, Ben Toner, and other messengers, Mr. Bigglethorpe had acquainted his somewhat tyrannical spouse that he was staying for a while at the Flanders lakes to enjoy the fishing.  Mr. Rigby had brought from the store his best rods and lines and his fly-book.  He was, therefore, up early on Thursday morning, lamenting that he was not at Richards, whence he could have visited the first lake and secured a mess of fish before breakfast.  He was sorting out his tackle in the office, when Marjorie, an early riser, came in to see if Uncle John was there.  When she found out the occupant, she said:  “Come along, Mr. Biggles, and let us go fishing, it’s so long before breakfast.”  Fishing children could do anything with Bigglethorpe; he would even help them to catch cat-fish and suckers.  But he had an eye to business.  “Marjorie,” he asked, “do you think you could find me a pickle bottle, an empty one, you know?” She thought she could, and at once engaged ’Phosa and ’Phena in the search for one.  A Crosse and Blackwell wide-mouthed bottle, bearing the label “mixed pickles,” which really means gherkins, was borne triumphantly into the office.  Mr. Bigglethorpe handled it affectionately, and said:  “Put on your hat, Marjorie, and we’ll go crawfish hunting.”  Without rod or line, the fisherman, holding the pickle bottle in his left hand, and taking Marjorie by the right, walked down to the creek.  On its bank he sat down, and took off his shoes and socks, an example quickly and joyfully followed by his young companion.  Then he splashed a little water on his head, and she did the same; after which they waded in the shallow brook, and turned up flat stones in its bed.  Sometimes the crawfish lay quite still, when Mr. Bigglethorpe, getting his right hand, with extended thumb and forefinger, slily behind it, grasped the unsuspecting crustacean at the back of his great nippers, and landed him in the bottle filled with sparkling water.  Sometimes a “craw,” as Marjorie called them, darted away backward in a great hurry, and had to be looked for under another stone, and these were generally young active fellows, which, the fisherman said, made the best bait for bass.  It was wild, exciting work, with a spice of danger in it from the chance of a nip from those terrible claws.  Marjorie enjoyed it to the full.  She laughed and shrieked, and clapped her hands over every new addition to the pickle bottle, and Mr. Biggles was every bit as enthusiastic as she was.  Soon they were aware of a third figure on the scene.  It was the sleepless lawyer.  “Come in, Eugene,” cried Marjorie; “take off your shoes and stockings, and help us to catch these lovely craws.”  He had to obey, and was soon as excited as the others over this novel kind of sport.