Bob handed his game-bag to Dick, who slung it over his shoulder and set out in search of the squirrels, while George hurried down the beach to bring up the scow.
By the time he returned, Bob had rigged a pole and dug a supply of bait; and when he had got into the boat, George pulled him to the nearest fishing-ground.
“There’s nothing like knowing where to go to find the best places,” said Bob, half an hour later, as he surveyed with no little satisfaction, the fine string of yellow perch which was floating in the water alongside the scow. “Yesterday, Dick and I tried all the likely spots along the opposite shore, but we didn’t get a bite until we got down to the lower end of the lake.”
“That was because you didn’t understand the habits of the fish,” replied George. “When the season first opens, you will find them along the beach, just outside the weeds; but as the weather grows warmer, they draw off into deep holes, and at this time of the year you will find the best fishing in about forty feet of water.”
While Bob was engaged in hauling in the perch, almost as fast as he could bait his hook, Dick Langdon was not idle. His gun spoke at short intervals, and as Dick was a fine marksman, he did not throw away a single charge of shot.
When the fishermen returned to the cabin, they found him sitting on a log in front of it, with half a dozen gray squirrels at his side. He might have secured as many more if he had felt so disposed, but being a thorough-bred young sportsman, he did not believe in killing more game than he could use.
Breakfast was soon cooked and eaten, and then Dick and Bob announced that they were ready to see George make an attempt to recover the lost fowling-piece.
The lake being quiet, they had a fair view of the rocks on which they had so narrowly escaped being wrecked, and they shuddered as they looked at them.
CHAPTER VII.
A PERSEVERING DIVER.
Bob rowed the boat, George stood in the bow, divested of his clothing and all ready to make the plunge, and Dick sat in the stern and looked at the rocks.