Dick loved to fish and on this particular morning luck was with him. The water swarmed with trout. In less than twenty minutes he had pulled out a good two-days’ supply of them.
“It doesn’t require a great amount of skill to do this,” he informed himself, throwing out his line for the last time. “If I had a hay fork, I believe I could pitch ’em out by the ton. Great Caesar! What’s that!”
A quick splashing in the water on the opposite shore had drawn his attention, caused him to straighten up in sudden alarm.
“A moose!” he ejaculated, breathing his relief. “I thought maybe it was something else.”
He stood perfectly still as the majestic swimmer came on.
“I can’t shoot him—I can’t!” decided Dick, his admiring gaze on the monarch of the northland forests, watching with bated breath as the splendid beast continued its course across the murky, discolored stream. “Anyway,” he continued, “it wouldn’t be fair to take an advantage like that. Our larder is full of meat now.”
He actually turned his back a moment later as he rolled up his line, picked up the fish he had caught and walked back to the packs. Yet he swung about again when the moose plunged to shore, scarcely more than a hundred feet away. Head raised high, the magnificent animal struck out at a brisk trot and was soon lost to view.
“I’m glad I didn’t take a shot at him,” Dick breathed thankfully. “He was too wonderful.”
The morning wore on. It was eleven o’clock when Dick consulted his watch, and only a few minutes after when Toma and Sandy appeared. Haggard-eyed, faces gray with dust, they loped into camp and threw themselves down, gasping for breath.
“We’ve got to get out of here quick!” Sandy wheezed, turning a terror-stricken gaze upon his chum. “I’m fagged out.... Crawled a hundred yards on our bellies before we dared to get up and run.... We haven’t a moment to lose.”