“All right, you don’t have to eat the fish,” retorted the stout lad, as he got out his line and some bait he had thought to bring along. “I’ll catch ’em, and Jerry and I and the professor will eat ’em. You can live on canned sardines.”
“You won’t catch any with the water as high and as muddy as it is to-day,” predicted Ned.
“Just you watch,” was all Bob replied.
He cast in, as Jerry steered the boat, the tall lad having to give his whole attention to it, for the stream was filled with floating débris that had been carried down by the rising water, and it required skill to avoid collisions. But Jerry knew his business, and rarely did a log scrape the Dartaway ever so gently.
Bob went out on the little after-deck to fish, while the professor also took his place there to look for more valuable specimens than angle worms. Ned busied himself about the engine, and got out some packages of food, and the dishes that would be needed for the mid-day meal.
Bob did have pretty good luck fishing, and, when noon came, he had a number of good-sized specimens. In order that Jerry could enjoy his meal without having to eat with one hand and steer with the other, the boat was tied up in a little cove and there Bob proceeded to get dinner on the gasolene stove that was in a small galley off the main cabin.
“Um! But this is good!” murmured the stout lad with his mouth fairly well filled.
“It’s a bad habit for cooks to praise their own broth,” remarked Ned.
“Well, isn’t it good?” demanded Bob.
“Of course it is,” put in Jerry. “It’s a good meal, Chunky, and Ned is only jealous. Don’t mind him.”