Seated on the dry end was a stout, placid man
"Dose worms she's taste lak' pie to dose feesh," explained Dave.
"I'd like it better," grumbled Mabel, whose hook was continually catching in the trees, "if there wasn't so much underbrush overhead."
"That's certainly a queer place," laughed Billy, stringing his eleventh trout on the branch provided by Dave, "for underbrush. Here, I'll pull it out for you."
The wonderfully happy morning passed all too quickly—there should be some way of prolonging summer mornings in a trout stream. They had eaten their wholesome lunch, and Mr. Black, his fine dark eyes aglow with eagerness, his thick, almost-white hair standing up all over his head, had fished in a dozen perfectly marvelous holes that Dave had pointed out, when the castaways reached in their wanderings a point crossed by a broken-down bridge. One end was still in place; the other sagged until it was partly submerged. Seated on the dry end of this flimsy structure, fish-pole in hand, was a stout, placid man, whose mild, serene blue eyes invited confidence.
Sociable Mr. Black, still aglow with the joy of his unusual luck and glad of a chance to display his splendid catch, proudly disclosed the contents of his basket—also of the basket that Dave carried.
Billy, too, and the girls flocked nearer to display their respective catches. It was certainly a fine showing. Mr. Black, however, had the lion's share.
"How many did you say?" drawled the comfortable stranger, seemingly only mildly interested in the count. His apparent indifference, indeed, proved quite galling to Mr. Black, who had introduced himself and his party.
"Seventy-two for mine," beamed Mr. Black. "For once we'll have all the trout we can eat."
"Well, Mr. Black," returned the man, in his leisurely, indifferent way, "I'm sorry for you; but I guess you'll have to ride to Lakeville in my buckboard to-night. I'm the game warden; and fifty fish is the limit."