"Fishing with his two and a half worms," replied Henrietta.
"There he comes now," said Marjory, "but what in the world ails him?"
No wonder she asked, for stout Mr. Black, hatless and coatless, his thick, iron-gray hair standing upright, his oft-mended suspenders broken once more and dangling from his waist, was dashing madly about the further end of the clearing. Now with arms aloft, now with fingers gripping the sod, this usually sedate and dignified gentleman was behaving in a most remarkable manner.
"Goodness!" gasped Henrietta. "He must be doing an Indian war-dance!"
"He's pounding the ground with his hat," said Marjory.
"Now he's trying to fly—mercy! He's tripped right over a stump!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Let's go and see what he's doing."
Just then Jean and Mabel clambered up the bank from the beach. On seeing the others fleeing hurriedly in Mr. Black's direction, they, too, scurried after.
"He got away," panted Mr. Black, ruefully, as he picked himself up from the grass plot.
"What?" inquired Marjory, "a squirrel? a rabbit? a beaver?"
"No," returned Mr. Black, rather sheepishly, wiping his perspiring brow, "a grasshopper. But I must have that beast. Girls, I'll give you a dollar apiece for every grasshopper you can catch within the next ten minutes. You see, I accidentally caught one—the thing was down my neck—put it on my hook, and in two seconds it was snatched off by the biggest trout I've seen in six years! Yes, siree! He was a yard long! I'd pay two dollars for another grasshopper this minute; for I can't catch the pesky things."