"There are ever so many trout up in the stream by Inglemere," remarked Ralph. "If we could manage to tickle a few, we might fry them in the lid of the milk-can."
"It's rank poaching!" declared Meta.
"I don't care in the least," returned Ralph. "If Sir Percy complains that any are missing, you can give him the bones, with my compliments."
"I don't think he would mind your catching one or two," said Monica. "I know Sir Percy rather well, and it is only real poachers that he's so hard on, and excursionists who come sometimes and try to fish. You see, as he says, if everyone were allowed to take fish, there would soon be none left, and people would begin to do it for the sake of selling them, and not for the sport. He allowed Mr. Cross's nephews to fish last summer when they were staying at the Rectory, and he said I might too, if I ever felt inclined."
"I've never seen trout tickled," said Lindsay.
"It will be a case of 'First catch your fish, then cook it'," laughed Rhoda. "It isn't at all easy to whisk them out—they're the most slippery things you can imagine. I'm glad we don't have to depend on Ralph's skill for our dinner. I was hoping we might find some mushrooms, and stew them in part of the milk we've brought. We could put the can down among the ashes of the fire, and they'd be cooking while we ate the first course."
"Well, it is certainly a case of 'First pick your mushrooms', for you don't even know whether there'll be any," retorted Ralph. "The trout are always there, at any rate."
It was a long walk to Pendle Tor, and appetites, sharpened by the fresh air of the hills, began to grow rather keen; but as they had all resolved not to have their picnic before they had reached the summit, they staved off the edge of their hunger with a few biscuits, and, trudging on, covered the last mile in such quick time that Leonard declared it reminded him of a paper-chase. It was rather a steep pull to gain the highest point, yet they were well rewarded when they reached it by the bird's-eye view of the landscape around them, farms, churches, and distant village looking like so many toys, and the fields like the divisions in a map.
"I hope it doesn't mean to rain," said Monica, pointing to some rather threatening clouds that were rolling up from the west.
"We shall get a nice wetting if it does, for we haven't an umbrella amongst us!" returned Irene.