Mrs. Slade, on Ned’s request, had the cook put up a basket of bread and butter, some cake and cheese, which Bob fastened to his machine. Then, the fishing tackle having been stowed away on Jerry’s motor the three chums started off.
Limestone Creek was a stream about ten miles from Cresville. It was a noted fishing place, and many a fat chub or speckled trout had been pulled from the sparkling waters. It was a hot August day, but the boys did not mind the burning rays of the sun. Part of the way they rode along under big trees that gave a refreshing shade, and occasionally there was a little breeze to cool them off.
“Here we are,” cried Jerry at length as he turned his machine from the main road, into a narrow path that led through a green field to the brook. “This way to the fishing banks!”
“Yes, and if you yell that way all the fish will be scared away,” expostulated Ned. “Make a little less noise if you want any luck.”
“Good idea,” chimed in Bob. He soon had the lines in shape, and then, taking out his knife, cut a slim willow pole that would serve excellently for fishing. The others followed his example, and soon all three were sitting on the grassy bank, while the cork floats bobbed lightly in the swirl of the eddy which formed the “old fishing hole.”
Luck was good with the young disciples of Isaak Walton, and they soon had a dozen choice fish among them. Then, as the sun was high in the sky, and it was hot sitting on the bank, the boys adjourned to the shade of the tree where they had left their cycles.
“Now for dinner!” cried Bob.
“Let’s draw lots to see who makes the fire, who cleans the fish and who cooks them,” suggested Ned.
Ten minutes later an appetizing aroma filled the summer air.
“Ah! Maybe that ain’t good!” cried Bob.