Gerald and Jim, thus admonished, began undoing their fishing tackle, and soon the quartet were fishing as if their lives depended on what they caught that afternoon. And the strangest part about it was that nobody—not even the girls—said a word! Silence reigned supreme. So, although Dorothy had triumphed in showing the boys the folly of keeping absolutely silent, the boys had also won their point in getting the girls so interested that neither cared to talk.
The fish began to bite with unusual frequency, and soon each member of the party had a fine string in the basket. Lunch was forgotten, so eager was each to beat the other’s record, and so nearly equal were the numbers of fish caught by each, they were afraid to stop to count them for fear they would be losing valuable time.
But finally, when the declining sun told them that the afternoon would soon be gone, with the pangs of hunger gnawing at their stomachs, a general agreement caused all to wind in their lines.
The fish were counted and it was seen that Dorothy had made the best record with seventeen trout of various sizes. Gerald came a close second, having sixteen, while Molly and Jim followed in the order named with fourteen and twelve respectively.
Lunch was eaten—or rather devoured, for they were ravenously hungry—in the shade of the big trees on the bank before preparations were made for the return to camp.
“Wish those fish were up the mountain,” sighed Jim.
“Oh, it will be easy to carry them,” said Molly.
“Yes; easy for you, because Gerald and I will have to carry all you’ve caught as well as our own.”
“How clever of you to guess that,” Dorothy said, laughing. “You’re a bright boy, Jim.”