Presently all of them were ready to start.
“It would be nice now,” said Thad, before departing, “if some of you camp-keepers gave those trout another try. We may not get a shot at a deer all the time we’re gone; and if we fail on fresh meat, another mess of trout would taste pretty fine.”
“I should say they would, whether we strike game or not,” declared Giraffe.
“Haven’t tasted anything so good since we were up in Maine last fall, and had just one mess before the trout season closed,” Allan observed.
“I’ll try and accommodate you as far as I’m able,” Smithy agreed.
“Same here,” echoed Davy Jones.
But as for Bumpus, good-natured, jolly Bumpus, he seemed to have lost his tongue, for he failed to add his promise to that of the other two scouts.
Thad looked at him as he turned away. He had never dreamed that the fat scout would take anything so much to heart. Bumpus was not cut out for a good hunter, either by instinct or bodily favor. Some of his enemies in Cranford, like Brose Griffin and Eli Bangs, were wont to say that Bumpus was not only ponderous of body, but “fat-witted” as well, by which they probably meant his mind was slow to act.
Still, there have been successful fat hunters. Bumpus knew, for he had made it a point to investigate in every way possible, and he was resolved that he would shine as a successful Nimrod, despite the disadvantages under which he labored. So much the more credit to him when he finally proved his right to boast that proud title.
After the five hunters went away, Smithy found some bait, and wandered down to the base of the rapids to fish. The gentle art of angling was more in the line of the dude of the patrol than tramping through the big timber after elusive game.