"After you've eaten a trout cooked and served up by Dick Prescott," Dave declared, "you won't want them cooked by anyone else. Dick is the one trout chef in this part of the country."
"Where did he learn?" teased Belle with a pretense of suspicion.
"Mr. Morton—-Coach Morton, of our high school eleven—-taught
Dick how to do it," Dave explained.
"Right here, young ladies—-attention!" called Dr. Bentley, holding up a warning finger. "If brook trout are as fine eating as they used to be when I was a boy, then you simply won't be able to keep it a secret that you've eaten some recently. Yet on one point I must insist. None of you must be dishonorable enough to name any spot within fifty miles of here as the scene of your trout luncheon. If you let the secret out all the trout fishermen in four counties will be swarming here to destroy all the fun your young men friends are having. So, please remember! Utter, dark, uncompromising secrecy!"
"Is it as bad as that?" asked Belle.
"Every real trout fisherman knows enough to keep his own secrets as to the streams that contain trout," Dave nodded.
By this time they came within sight of the camp. Nor was it long before Tom, Dan and Harry caught sight of the visitors and ran forward to meet them.
"Our friends have come just in time to have a trout feast," Dick announced.
"I shall be jealous if they eat the trout," Tom retorted.
"Or envious?" laughed Belle.