“Never mind,” said Stone; “it will make him happy to fish.”
In the meantime Springer and Crane had paddled well out upon the lake, and presently they turned back toward Pleasant Point. Approaching the camp, they stared at the Dutch boy, who had dropped his baited hook into the water and then serenely fallen sound asleep. There he sat, the rod drooping, his fat chin on his breast, snoring distinctly.
“Look at that!” said Phil, as they silently swept near. “He must sus-sleep pretty near all the time.”
“By Jinks!” chuckled Sile. “He’d wake up pretty sudden if he was to fall in.”
They landed in the sandy cove and hastened to call the attention of the others to the snoozing fisherman.
“We know it,” laughed Grant. “I rather wish he’d get an eel on now. He’s right scared of eels.”
“Oh, is he, hey?” snickered Crane. “Well, mebbe I can pervide an eel for him. Jest wait, fellers.”
Over to the marshy shore he hastened, where, after some searching, he got hold of the end of a root and tore it out of the muddy ground. With this pliable, slimy root, which was nearly five feet in length, Crane hastened to get into the canoe and push off. Expectantly the others watched Sile paddle round the point and get close to Duckelstein’s dangling line. Without awakening Carl, the joker drew up the line and tied it fast to one end of the root, which he then let down into the water. In a few moments he was back on shore with his chuckling, expectant companions.
“Naow,” he said, “jest yeou watch me wake him up.”
Silently he sneaked up behind the sleeper, reached over, got the line in his fingers, and made a loop, which he slipped over the reel-handle so that it would not run out. Then he grabbed Carl by the shoulder and yelled into his ear: