“Let’s make him believe he’s caught something,” suggested Fenn. “Tie something to his line.”
“It’s your turn,” spoke Ned, and Fenn nodded assent.
He made his way quietly down the bank until he could pull Jim’s hook from the water which just touched it. He fastened something to it and then gave the line a sudden yank. Jim had the pole tied to his wrist to prevent a possible big fish from taking it away from him as he slept, and Fenn’s jerk awakened him.
“Got one,” announced Jim, not bothering to sit up straight. Then he began to pull in. The line came up with a suddenness that surprised him, as Fenn let go, and an old rubber boot, that Stumpy had attached, flew over and struck the lazy lad in the face.
“It’s a whopper!” he cried until he saw what it was. Then, with a disgusted look at the plotters he turned over and went to sleep again.
“What can you do with a fellow like that?” asked Ned appealing to his chums.
“Death will never overtake him,” replied Frank. “It will pass him on the road, thinking Jim has already passed in. He certainly is the last word in laziness.”
The four comrades decided they had enough fishing for the day, so, putting away their tackle and adding some fresh wet grass to the baskets of fish in order to keep them cool, they started for home.
“Let’s take the short cut,” suggested Frank. “Right through the woods.”