Although they waited patiently, they found, to their great disappointment, that the fish would not come. At length Paul felt a bite; he pulled up his line in a fever of agitation, and with a glow of triumph jerked into the boat a tiny fish about four inches long. But Paul's triumph was not at all shared by Frank.
"Pooh!" said he, "it's only a miserable perch."
"A perch?" said Paul. "Isn't it a good fish?"
"Good? Why, these lakes are crammed with them. It's trout we want, not these." And as Frank said this he jerked his own line with some complacency. Soon something bit his bait. He jerked it out and found, to his disgust, another perch.
At length Frank said that he was going up the woods a little distance, to a lake which was about a mile off, connected with this by a brook. He could follow the windings of the brook and easily get there.
Paul, however, thought he would stay where he was, for the woods looked very rough, and he enjoyed being in a boat, even if he didn't catch anything.
So Frank started off, promising to be back within an hour.
Paul continued his fishing. He moved the boat to the opposite shore. No bites came—that is, none came to the bait, but he soon became aware of other bites, which he did not expect. These were produced by swarms of mosquitoes, which gathered so thickly that at last Paul had to pull in his line and give himself to self-defense. He shifted the position of the boat a dozen times, but his persecutors followed him. At last he could stand it no longer, and concluded to go after Frank.
Nearly an hour had passed, and it was about time for Frank to return. It was Paul's intention to stroll along the brook, and he would be certain either to meet Frank in his return, or else he would find him at the lake to which he had gone.
It was very swampy, and Paul sank in up to his knees for some distance, but at length reached rising ground. The brook was only a small one, and was bordered by such dense underbrush that Paul found it impossible to follow it. In fact, a much better path appeared.