“There!” breathed Rod in deep satisfaction; “I’m an angler now, for I really caught something worth while with a fly-rod. Roping a steer is a heap more dangerous and strenuous, but the person who makes game of this sort of sport sure doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Continuing to follow the brook, they found sport enough to satisfy any genuine Nimrod, and ere long the basket contained a catch numbering at least a full dozen.
“I suppose it’s time we were getting back to camp,” said Springer at last. “The others must be up by this time, and hungry. They’ll wonder what has become of us.”
“I hate to quit,” admitted Rodney. “I could fish all day, I reckon.”
“You’re an angler all right,” laughed Phil. “You’ve gug-got the fuf-fever. But you mustn’t try to catch all the fish at once, you know. This brook won’t run away, and we’ll try it again.”
“Let’s look; let’s see how many we have,” urged Grant. “Open the basket, Phil.”
Springer had recrossed the brook, and he paused to comply with his companion’s request. The basket opened, they gazed with admiring eyes at the spotted beauties within, some of which were still breathing and moving. They were thus engaged when a startling interruption caused them to spring up swiftly and turn their heads.
“Here, you fellers!” rasped a harsh voice. “What are you doing, fishing in this brook? It’s private property.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE ENCOUNTER AT THE BROOK.