“Quite dithyrambic,” said Dick, “and now that your burst of rhetoric is over let’s go on and catch our fish.  Will you also use your romantic science of mathematics in fishing?  By the way, what has become of that little algebra book of yours?”

“It’s here,” said Warner, taking it from the breast pocket of his tunic.  “I never part with it and I most certainly expect to use its principles when I reach the fishing stream.  Let x express my equipment and myself, let y equal skill and patience; x we shall say also equals the number 7, while y equals the number 5.  Now the fish are represented by z which is equal to 12.  It is obvious even to slow minds like yours and Pennington’s that neither x nor y alone can equal z, the fish, otherwise 12, but when combined they represent that value exactly, that is x plus y equals 12.  So, if I and my equipment coordinate perfectly with my skill and patience, which most certainly will happen, the fish are as good as caught by me already.  The rest is a mere matter of counting.”

“Best give in, Dick,” said Pennington.  “He’ll always prove to you by his algebra that he knows everything, and that everything he does is right.  Of course, he’s the best fisherman in the world!”

“I’d have you to know, Francis Pennington,” said Warner, with dignity, “that I was a very good fisherman when I was five years old, and that I’ve been improving ever since, and that Vermont is full of fine deep streams, in which one can fish with pleasure and profit.  What do you know, you prairie-bred young ruffian, about fishing?  I’ve heard that your creeks and brooks are nothing but strips of muddy dew.  The Platte River itself, I believe, is nearly two inches deep at its deepest parts.  I don’t suppose there’s another stream in America which takes up so much space on the map and so little on the ground.”

“The Platte is a noble river,” rejoined Pennington.  “What it lacks in depth it makes up in length, and I’ll not have it insulted by anybody in its absence.”

While they talked they passed through the brown woods and came to the creek, flowing with a fine volume of water down from the mountains into one of the rivers of the valley.

“It’s up to its advertisements,” said Warner, looking at it with satisfaction.  “It’s clear, deep and it ought to have plenty of good fish.  I see a snug place between the roots of that oak growing upon the bank, and there I sit.”

“There are plenty of good places,” said Dick, as they seated themselves and unwrapped their lines, “and I’ve a notion that our fishing is going to prove good.  Isn’t it fine?  Why, it’s like being back home!”

“Time’s rolled back and we’re just boys again,” said Pennington.

“Don’t try to be poetic, Frank,” said Warner.  “I’ve told you already that a man who has nothing but muddy streaks of dew to fish in can’t know anything about fishing.”

“Stop quarreling, you two,” said Dick.  “Don’t you know that such voices as yours raised in loud tones would scare away the boldest fish that ever swam?”