From that time on, the sport was fast and furious.  The lake was full of fish, and it had been visited so rarely that they had not learned the danger of the bait that trailed so temptingly before them.  In half an hour they had caught more than they could eat and carry home, and Tom, whose appalling appetite was clamoring for satisfaction, suggested that they wind up and pull for shore.  Dick was nothing loath, and the canoe, more heavily loaded than when they had started out, glided shoreward until its nose touched the bank where Bert was standing, surrounded by a host of finny beauties that bore witness to his skill.

They fastened the boat securely and spent a few minutes comparing their catches.  Then they gathered a heap of dry brush and burned it until they had a glowing bed of embers.  They had no frying pan, but Bert improvised an ingenious skillet of tough oaken twigs, that, held high enough above the fire, promised to broil the fish to a turn.

Tom, who, in accordance with the agreement, had nothing to do, stretched himself out luxuriously and “bossed the job.”

“See that you don’t burn the fish, my man,” he said to Bert, affecting a languid drawl.  “And you, my good fellow,” he added, turning to Dick, “be sure and clean them thoroughly.”

He dodged just in time to avoid a fish head that Dick threw at him.  It whizzed by his ear, and his quick duck detracted somewhat from his dignity.

“The growing insolence of the lower classes,” he muttered, regaining his equilibrium.  “You’re fired,” he roared, glaring at Dick.

“All right,” said Dick, throwing down his knife.

“No, no,” corrected Tom hurriedly, “not till after dinner.”

Before long the fish were sputtering merrily over the fire and the appetizing smell was full of promise.  It even induced Tom to abandon his leisurely attitude and “rustle” the good things out of the basket.  They made a royal meal and feasted so full and long that, when at last old Nature simply balked at more, they had no desire to do anything but lie back lazily and revel in the sheer delight of living.

“If I’ve an enemy on earth, I forgive him,” sighed Dick blissfully.

“Old Walt Whitman’s my favorite poet,” said Tom.  “Isn’t he the fellow that tells you to ’loaf and invite your soul’?”

“Soul,” grunted Bert disdainfully.  “You haven’t any soul.  Just now you’re all body.”

“Always pickin’ on me,” groaned Tom resignedly.

In complete abandonment to their sense of well being they drew their hats over their eyes and stretched out under the shadow of the trees that came down almost to the water’s edge.  A brooding peace enveloped them, and the droning of insects and the faint lapping of the water on the shore lulled them into drowsiness.  Insensibly they lapsed into slumber.

A half hour passed before Bert started up and rubbed his eyes.  It took him a moment to realize where he was.  His eyes fell on his sleeping companions, and he made a movement as though to awake them.  Then he checked the impulse.