“Now, Frankie,” said Atwell, “here’s your happy hunting ground; get busy and dig us some bait while we’re over having a soak.” The Hyenas, one and all, undressed, throwing their clothing into the boats and putting on their trunks. Gordon and Harry followed suit, wearing trunks which had been lent them by the Ravens.
“Come, Giant George, hurry up!” called Atwell, as George stepped gingerly from his canoe. “Who’s got the can, anyway?” The can was not to be found. “Well, that’s a nice fix to get us in, Frankie; here, let’s have that bottle—you’ll have to put the bait in that.”
“How’ll we get ’em out?” asked Brownell.
“Just whistle and they’ll come out.”
“Let’s have the bottle a minute,” said Gordon.
“Let him have it,” laughed Harry; “he’s got a way.”
And sure enough, he had. He placed the bottle between his knees, wound a piece of fishing line once around it just below the neck, pulled it rapidly back and forth for several seconds, then plunged the bottle into the water. The neck remained in the stream and Gordon handed to Brownell a perfect drinking cup, smooth and even where it had broken off.
“Good for you!” exclaimed Atwell.
“Isn’t he the greatest!” said Frankie.
“That’s nothing,” said Gordon.