“Flounder!” cried Harry.
“Three, four, five, six—”
“But I said it!” Harry cried. “You mustn’t count any more.”
“Oh, then what must I do now?”
“You must try again until you catch some one. Try Dick.”
So the doctor tried Dick with no better result, and then Roy and finally Chub.
“You mustn’t say ‘fish’ every time,” Harry explained. “If you do, we know what to expect. Try ‘fowl’ or ‘flesh.’” But the doctor shook his head.
“I guess I’d better stick to fish,” he replied. “I can remember that. Besides, I’m fond of fish.”
Finally Chub took pity on him and allowed himself to be caught, and the doctor sank gratefully into his chair, sighing with relief and mopping his face with his handkerchief. They tried other games after that and kept up the fun until the clock in the wheel-house warned them that it was past bedtime. The doctor and Harry slept on the boat, but the boys sought the tent on shore. The moon came up while they were getting ready for bed, and with it came a fresh breeze out of the southwest, which, according to Chub, “just filled the bill.” At all events, it made the tent a much more comfortable sleeping-place, and it wasn’t very long before they were all slumbering.