The fire in the little fireplace burned clear and bright, making a circle of light in the dark forest. Lew sat near the fire, cross-legged on his pack bag, thrusting an occasional stick into the flames. Charley sat by his instrument. Rapidly he pressed the key, and the sparks flew between the points of his gap like tiny flashes of horizontal lightning.
"Hello! Is that you, Willie?" rapped out Charley.
"Sure," came the answer. "But we're all here. Why didn't you call up last night?"
"Couldn't," answered Charley. "Didn't reach Old Ironsides camp site until long after dark. Forest fires have burned up all the timber there. Spring dried up, too. Had terrible time. Awful thirsty and no water to drink. Too tired to put up aerial."
"Where are you now?"
"In the third valley east of Old Ironsides. Never been so far in the mountains before. Grand stand of timber here. Great trout stream. Full of big ones. Won't touch worms or flies. Just been catching crabs to try to-morrow."
"Get any yet?"
"One big one."
"Have any adventures?"
"Not unless you call our experience in the burned timber an adventure. Toughest thing I've stacked up against in a long time. Timber burned for miles. No fish. Raccoons catching 'em out of the little pools. Had to come here to get any. What are you doing?"