"Catch it!" he shouted. "There it goes!"
"Plop!" the fish went right into the pool, and with a wiggle of its tail disappeared.
"We're a couple of healthy fishermen," scoffed Bobby. "We land them, and then lose them."
"Le's go farther down stream. We've made so much noise here that we couldn't catch anything but deaf fish—that's sure."
Bobby was quite agreed to this, and Fred in his bathing trunks, leaving his wet clothing to dry on the bushes, led the way along the creek bank. Bobby followed with the can of worms.
They found another quiet place and this time both took pains to cast their lines where no overhanging branches would interfere with the tips of their poles. The creek was well stocked with sunfish, yellow perch, shiners, and small brook trout. Once—"in a dog's age," Fred's Uncle Jim said—somebody landed a big trout out of one of the deeper holes in the stream.
The boys fished for an hour, and both landed perch and shiners.
"If we get enough of them we can have a fish supper," declared Fred.
"At home?"
"Sure. We can clean them—"