"And let that cheer be the last," called back Tom, in a low voice that nevertheless traveled backward over the water. "Don't frighten my bass from coming up to take a look at me."
"Tom surely is the sincere old bass fisher, isn't he?" demanded
Harry Hazelton.
"I don't know," Dick made answer. "We can tell better when we've seen him hook and land a few fish."
"Paddle slowly right across the lake, Danny," begged Tom, watching his trolling line.
From the camp the boys watched until they grew tired of the monotony. Reade did not seem destined to secure a single "strike" from bass that afternoon.
"At half-past four o'clock," proposed Darrin, "I'll go down to the old pier and see what I can do toward catching a string of perch for to-night."
"I'll go with you," nodded Hazelton.
"All right," agreed Dick. "Greg and I will get in the water and wood, and see to whatever else we're to have for supper. I don't believe Tom will bring us anything."
Nor did Reade himself believe it. For two solid hours Dan Dalzell paddled lazily wherever his skipper told him to. The nearest that Tom seemed destined to get a "strike" was when his hook caught in the weeds.
At last they were some distance out on the lake, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards from shore. Reade, wholly discouraged, was about to give the order to make for camp.