"Who'll cook them? Our Meena won't," declared Bobby, with confidence.
"And I don't suppose our girl will, either. Besides, we'd have to catch a bushel to give the crowd at our house a taste, even," for there were five young Martins at Fred's house, besides himself, ranging from the baby who could just toddle around, to Fred's fourteen year old sister, Mary. There was another girl older than Fred, who was the oldest boy.
"Just wish Michael Mulcahey would light a fire in his stove and pan them for us," said Bobby, wistfully. "'Member, he did once!"
"Yes. But we haven't caught enough yet."
"Hush!" murmured Bobby. "I got another bite."
In a minute he had landed a nice, big sunfish. He cut a birch twig then, with a hook on the end of it, and strung his three fish. Fred did the same for his two, and the fish were let down into the cool water, and were thus kept alive.
They moved farther down the creek after a bit, and tried another pool. The strings of fish grew steadily. It looked, really, as though they would have enough for supper—and it takes a right good number of such little fish to make a meal for two hungry boys.
Not that they wanted food again so soon. During the afternoon they ate the rest of the lunch and some apples to stave off actual hunger!
"I bet you get sunburned again," said Bobby.
"No, I won't. I'm in the shade all the time."