"Now, if you don't mind, sir," coaxed Dick, with a smile, "I'd rather not destroy, in advance, the keen delight you're going to feel when you see the next cartload."
"How many of these cartloads have you lying around?" asked the proprietor quickly.
"The next one will be also the last, sir. May I call you out when my friends get here with it?"
"I—-I guess so," assented the hotel man, and then went inside.
Dick found a seat on a nearby bench and waited.
Dave and Harry presently came along with the cart. Dick once more went after his prospective purchaser.
"What have you now—-more bass?" asked the hotel man, eyeing the heavy box on the cart. Water was dripping from the ice and running to the ground.
"No, sir; just look!" begged Prescott, lifting some jute bagging from the top of the box, then digging down through the top layer of cracked ice.
"Brook trout?" cried the hotel man. "Where on earth did you get them?"
"We have a factory where we turn 'em out nights, sir," volunteered
Dave, with a grin.
"What do you want for them—-same price as for the bass?" demanded the proprietor.