“TIP-UPS” FOR PICKEREL
Tom Betts came up from the frozen creek.
“I don’t believe that little snow ought to keep us from trying the scheme we laid out between us, Jack,” he said, looking entreatingly at the other.
“Why, no, there wasn’t enough to hurt the skating,” replied the other, readily, much to Tom’s evident satisfaction.
“Bully for you, Jack!” he exclaimed. “There was more or less wind blowing at the time, and the snow was pretty dry, so it blew off the ice. We can easily make the lake in an hour I reckon, with daylight to help us. Besides, we know the way by this time, you see.”
“All right!” called out Frank, who had been detailed to assist Paul in the making of the extra bunks out of some spare boards that lay near by, having been brought into the woods for some purpose, though never used.
“Remember, you two fishermen,” warned Paul, “we’ll all have our mouths set for pickerel to-night, 120 so don’t dare disappoint us, or there will be a riot in the camp.”
“We’ve just got to get those fish, Jack,” said Tom, with mock solemnity, “even if we have to go in ourselves after them. Our lives wouldn’t be worth a pinch of salt in this crowd if they had to go pickerelless to-night.”
“Oh! that’ll do! Be off with you!” roared Jud Elderkin, making out to throw a frying-pan at Tom’s head.
When at the lake talking to the man who had agreed to look after their iceboats during their absence, the boys had learned that there was fine fishing through the ice to be had at this season of the year.