"How do you mean, get even?"
"He wanted to go with you this morning, so he went out and found your track going up stream. He came back to camp, got your fly book, cut him a willow pole, and started off down stream to beat you fishing. He's been gone most an hour and a half now."
"Well, he won't have to fish much to beat me, that's sure; but he ought to be getting back soon, so we can get started."
"Fishie, fishie, in the brook,
Hammie caught him with a hook,"
came drifting into camp from somewhere on the trail. Soon Ham came into view, a cotton flour sack thrown over his shoulder and a broad grin on his face. He had left his pole in the thicket.
"Fish, fish, fish—little, big, and in between," he cried as he waved the bag in front of him. "I've never had such fishing."
"Hurrah for the fisherman," called Chuck, as he came through the trees with a half-dozen small pails in his hands. "Ham gets the fish, I get the berries, and we all get the stomach-ache, see?"
"Let's look at the fish" shouted every one.
"Bet they are only minnies," cried Phil.
"Minnies, your grandmother," scornfully replied Ham. "I have one there that's a foot and a half long if it's an inch. The others aren't so big." He emptied the contents of the bag on the ground and stood proudly over them, a merry twinkle in his eye.