“Pickerel!” exclaimed Roy. “Where’d you get them?”
“Found them on top of the stove.”
“Seth Billings, I’ll bet!” cried Chub. “Was there any poetry?”
“Not a line,” answered Dick. “If Seth left them, we’re very much obliged to him, but I’d just like to catch a glimpse of him; he’s too plaguey mysterious for comfort.”
“I tell you!” said Roy. “He’s camping out here on the island! What’ll you bet he isn’t?”
“I’ll bet he is!” answered Chub. “Let’s go and look for him!”
“All right. But it was careless of him not to write a poem this time,” said Dick.
“Are you sure there wasn’t one?” Chub asked. “Did you look around? It might have blown off.”
“Yes, I looked. What I like best about these fish is that they’re already cleaned. All I’ve got to do is to slide them into the frying-pan.”