It was indeed a beautiful catch, and Jerry was justly proud of it.
After this nothing was caught for twenty minutes. Then Harry landed a fine fat perch weighing a pound. Jack was not fishing, but smoked and looked on contentedly.
Evening found them with a fine mess of bass and perch.
“Not a bad haul,” said Jerry, as he surveyed the lot.
“I reckon it’s about time to be gitting back,” observed Jack Broxton. “We want ter make Lakeview afore dark.”
So the anchor was hoisted and away they went before a nine-knot breeze.
The return was made along the north shore. Here there were numerous little islands, separated from the mainland by a series of channels, some shallow and others deep enough to admit of the passage of a good-sized yacht.
The Whistler was just passing one of these channels, and Jerry and Harry were at the side, cleaning their fish, when suddenly old Jack Broxton uttered a cry.
“What is it, Jack?” asked the young oarsman, quickly, while Harry also raised up.
“There’s a boat over yonder, back of that island, and I’m certain I saw Si Peters and Wash Crosby on board,” was the old boatman’s interesting answer.