"Sure," asserted her fidgety patient, "I could pull in a whale."
"Then," declared Mrs. Crane, "I'll get Mahjigeezigoqua to wash the dishes and make the beds, and I'll go, too. I don't care if I do get rheumatism—I haven't been fishing for years. And that young woman loves to do things for us."
"No wonder," said Jean, "after all you did for Rosa Marie last winter."
"Put on your very oldest shoes," ordered Mr. Black. "You're to wade the river—Dave says it's shallow all the way down, except in a few spots where we can follow a trail along the bank. He's cutting poles for everybody."
For perhaps half an hour, sure-footed Dave, carrying the lunch in a bag on his back, led the fishing party through thickets that Mr. Black had supposed impenetrable, to come out at last on the river bank. It was their own many-curved river, but so wildly beautiful at this seldom visited spot that even quiet Mrs. Crane exclaimed loudly. Then, their hooks baited, they waded into the shallow, winding stream, and fished.
"Go down dose stream," commanded Dave. "Bam-bye she's take you back to Pete's Patch."
"Here, Bettie," said Mr. Black, "I'll show you how to cast your hook—Phew! Here's a fish for you already—must have been ready for breakfast!"
Sure enough, a wriggling, silvery trout dangled from Mr. Black's pole.
"There's something running away with my line," complained inexperienced Jean, a little frightened by this uncanny sensation. "It feels as big as a rabbit!"
"Pull it in," commanded Mr. Black, "you've got a bite."