There is incessant fishing in the wilderness north of Lake Superior throughout every month of the year. All through the long winter the ice is cut away in order that the fish may be reached, and there is every sort of fishing between that which engages the labors of sailing vessels and men, down through all the methods of fish-taking, by nets, by spearing, still-fishing and fly-fishing.
Though the region has been famous, and therefore much visited, for many years, the field is so extensive, so well stocked, and so difficult of access, that even today almost the very largest known specimens of each class of fish are to be had there.
"These are the kind of fish the Indians live on during the winter," Tommy explained as he scraped the scales from his prize. "Only," he continued, "the Indians don't clean them at all. They simply make a hole in the tail end of each fish and string them up like beads on sticks which they set up in racks."
"I never did like cold-storage fish," Sandy declared, in a tone of disgust. "They taste like dry corn meal!"
While the fish cooked and the boys sat in the protecting smudge of the campfire, the sound of paddles was heard up the river. The swish and splash came on steadily for a moment and then suddenly ceased.
"I thought we were going to have company," suggested Will.
The boys listened for a time but no further sounds were heard.
"Now what would any one be doing in this wilderness?" Sandy asked.
"What would any one be sneaking around us for?"
"Perhaps they don't even know we're here!" argued George.
"With that great campfire going?" scoffed Tommy. "Why, they can see the light of that fire for ten miles or more!"