The shadows of the trees were long and pointed, bridging the bayou, when the boys drew in the lines, and unjointed the poles, and counted their fish.
“How many?” asked Ned.
“Fifty-three,” proclaimed Tom. “How many you got?”
“Forty-two,” answered Ned. “You beat me.”
“But you had only one arm,” reminded Tom.
“Let’s see—fifty-three plus forty-two—that makes ninety-five; and then there’s the big fish that got away, which makes ninety-six!” exclaimed Zu-zu. “My, what a lot! You ought to put some of them back.”
“We’ve put the big pickerel back; that’s all we can spare,” asserted Tom, ruefully.
They retraced their steps of the morning, along the path, until——
“Say—where’s our boat?” cried Ned, astounded.