“We never thought of that,” said Biff, in dismay. “You couldn’t very well handle him alone.”
“How about your rifle?” Joe suggested.
“The very thing! Even if you chaps go as far as the mainland, you will be able to hear a rifle shot. I’ll fire one shot into the air and that will be the signal to come back as quickly as you can. If he tries to get away, you can easily head him off in the ice-boat.”
This arrangement seemed to preclude any possibility of the stranger’s escape if he chanced to show up, so Joe, Chet and Biff trooped out. For the morning, they had decided to stay close to the cabin, “so there won’t be any risk of missing dinner,” as Chet explained, and amuse themselves by fishing through the ice. So, with lines ready and hooks baited with pieces of salt pork, they made their way down the slope and out on the ice.
There they set to work with their hatchets and soon had three holes chopped in the ice. They dropped in their lines and from then on it was a game to see who would catch the first fish. Chet, of course, raised a clamor every few minutes, claiming that he had a bite, but somehow the fish always managed to get away.
“No wonder,” grumbled Biff. “You scare ’em away, with all that racket. Try being quiet for a while and see how it works.”
To the astonishment of the others, Chet actually did manage to refrain from noise for the space of five minutes and the plan evidently had good results—but not for Chet. Joe suddenly gave his line a yank. A silvery body flashed through the air and flopped wildly on the ice.
He had caught a good-sized fish and when it has been despatched, the others returned to the ice-holes with renewed enthusiasm. Within a few minutes, Biff was the fortunate one, and a second fish was laid to rest on the ice beside the first. Chet endured the chaffing of the others, who elaborately complimented him on his skill. A moment later, he gave a yell of delight.
“I’ve got one! I’ve got one!”
He began to haul and tug at the line.