"To-morrow we'll fish on opposite sides of the run," said Lew as they buckled on their bait boxes and started. "I don't see any way to cross now and there's no time to hunt for a way."
"It's full of 'em. I'll bet on that," smiled Charley. "We'll catch a mess in no time. Here goes with a worm."
He threaded one on his hook, crouched down, and cautiously drew near the bank. A dexterous flick of his rod landed the worm fairly in the middle of the run. Hardly had it hit the water before something grabbed it, and Charley drew forth a flopping fish. But it proved to be only a fingerling. In disgust Charley wet his hand and carefully unhooked the little fish.
"Shows they're here, anyway," he said, as he tossed the little trout back into the stream.
But if they were there, they were strangely shy in making their presence known. Rod after rod the hoys advanced, careful not to show themselves, making their casts with greatest caution, and keeping as quiet as possible. But no fish so much as smelled their bait. Again and again they let their hooks float down into promising pools, but never a strike resulted.
They took the worms from their hooks and tried flies. But though their gaudy lures landed lightly on the water and danced in the rapids like real insects struggling for their lives, never a fish rose to grasp one.
"They won't touch worms and they don't want flies. I wonder what they do like," grumbled Lew in disgust. "I wish we had some grasshoppers or crickets. Bet we'd get 'em then."
They continued their efforts until it was almost dark. "We'll have to be getting back to camp," said Charley. "We can't see much longer. We don't want to be caught here in the dark. The flash-light is back at camp."
"Here's a fat grub," said Lew, picking up a whiteworm out of a rotting log. "I'm going to make one more try. Maybe they want grubs."
He slipped the worm on his hook and flicked it toward the brook. A second after it struck the water there was a splash, and Lew's reel sang shrilly.