As, what with the stirring ride and the excitement of the sport, each fellow felt, with Bert, that he was hungry enough to “eat nails,” the hamper was brought from the “Red Scout” and unpacked with scant ceremony.
Every boy who has spent a day in the open will know exactly how good those cold chicken and ham sandwiches tasted; and the way the doughnuts vanished was something to see. Washed down with a drink of cool water from a nearby spring, it was a luncheon to be remembered.
Again settling themselves in their chosen places, they continued to try “the heedless finny tribe to catch”; for four trout, even though they were fine, large ones, would, Tom said, regardless of the aptness of his simile, be no more than “a drop in the bucket for all those hungry fellows”; but their luck seemed to have changed.
For more than two hours not a nibble disturbed the quiet of those exasperating lines, and, as the ground, although covered with springy grass, is not the softest seat in the world, the boys’ patience was tested to the utmost. They lay outstretched, resting on both elbows, and Tom, tempted by the heat and the absolute quiet, was just falling into a doze, when he was aroused to immediate action by the violent twitching of his line. A moment more, and another speckled victim was added to their store.
For the next hour and a half the fish bit almost as fast as they could bait their hooks, and they were kept busy hauling in one after another, until, in the joy and excitement of the sport, they lost all count of time. Fortunately for the camp, Bert suddenly made the double discovery that they had more than enough fish, and that if there was to be a fish dinner at camp that night, they would have to stop at once.
“We’ll have to make a quick sneak,” said Ben, who, in moments of excitement, sometimes forgot his most polished English.
Hastily packing their catch in the fishing baskets they had brought, they tossed them and the tackle into the auto, scrambled in themselves, and were off and away.
“The ‘Red Scout’ goes fine,” said Tom, as the great car gathered headway. From the beginning, the auto race, which even the wonderful day’s sport could not completely banish from their minds, had been the almost exclusive topic of conversation among the campers, and now that the day was rapidly drawing near, they could think of little else. “Is she in first-class condition, Bert?” asked Ben.
“Yes,” Bert replied, “except that I noticed on the way out this morning that the brake did not work as well as usual. As soon as we reach home I will find and remedy the trouble, whatever it is. If worst comes to worst I can send to the factory for a new part, which would reach us inside of twenty-four hours.”
By this time about half the ten mile stretch had been covered, and now they had begun to descend a very steep hill. Suddenly Bert’s face went white. Tom, chancing to look at him, exclaimed, “What’s the matter, Bert?” and Bert replied, “The brake won’t work, fellows. Something’s stuck. I can’t control the car.”