She was standing in the margin of the lake up to her knees in water, with a blazing torch in one hand and one of our tent poles in the other.  Tied to the end the pole was a grapevine line, and a fishing-hook made of a hairpin was attached to it.

Her method, which it seems she’d heard from Charlie Sands and which was not in the “Young Woodsman,” was simple and effectual.

“Don’t move,” she said tensely when she heard me on the bank.  “There’s one here as big as a chicken!”

She struck the flare forward, and I could see the frog looking at it and not blinking.  He sat in a sort of heavenly ecstasy, like a dog about to bay at the moon, while the hook dangled just at his throat.

“I’m half-ashamed to do it, Lizzie, it’s so easy,” she said calmly, still tickling the thing’s throat with the hook.  “Grab him as I throw him at you.  They slip off sometimes.”

The next instant she jerked the hook up and caught the creature by the lower jaw.  It was the neatest thing I have ever seen.  Tish came wading over to where I stood and examined the frog.

“If we only had some Tartare sauce!” she said regretfully.  “I wish you’d look at my ankle, Lizzie.  There’s something stuck to it.”

The something was a leech.  It refused to come off, and so she carried both frog and leech back to the camp.  Aggie said on no account to pull a leech off, it left its teeth in and the teeth went on burrowing, or laid eggs or something.  One must leave it on until it was full and round and couldn’t hold any more, and then it dropped off.

So all night Tish kept getting up and going to the fire to see if it was swelling.  But toward morning she fell asleep and it dropped off, and we had a terrible feeling that it was somewhere in our blankets.

But the leech caused less excitement that evening than my story of Percy and the little girl in the white coat.  Aggie was entranced, and Tish had made Percy a suit of rabbit skin with a cap to match and outlined a set of exercises to increase his chest measure before I was half through with my story.

But Percy did not appear, although we had an idea that he was not far off in the woods.  We could hear a crackling in the undergrowth, but when we called there was no reply.  Tish was eating a frog’s leg when the idea came to her.

“He’ll never come out under ordinary circumstances in that—­er—­costume,” she said.  “Suppose we call for help.  He’ll probably come bounding.  Help!” she yelled, between bites, as one may say.

“Help!  Fire!  Police!”

“Help!” cried Aggie.  “Percy, help!” It sounded like “Mercy, help!”

It worked like a charm.  The faint cracking became louder, nearer, turned from a suspicion to a certainty and from a certainty to a fact.  The bushes parted and Percy stood before us.  All he saw was three elderly women eating frogs’ legs round a fire under a cloud of mosquitoes.  He stopped, dumbfounded, and in that instant we saw that he didn’t need the physical exercises, but that, of course, he did need the rabbit-skin suit.