“Bet yer life thar is,” said a voice with a chuckle.
Walter turned to find a rude raft anchored behind the half submerged top of a fallen hemlock, and on it sat Pat Malone, catching young striped perch for bait.
“Hello!” exclaimed Walter. “What are you doing here?”
“Seem ter be fishin’,” replied Pat, a broad grin spreading across his freckled face.
Walter grinned in return. “Well, what are you catching?” he asked.
“Mostly fish—some skeeters,” was the prompt retort.
Pat lifted a wriggling three-inch perch from the water. “Do you call that a fish?” asked Walter.
“Mebbe it is an’ mebbe it isn’t,” said the lumber boy as he dropped the victim into a battered old pail half filled with water. “How about this?” He reached behind him and held up at arm’s length a huge pickerel.
Walter allowed a long low whistle of admiration escape him. “Are there any more like that in here?” he asked eagerly.
“Shure,” replied Pat. “That’s nothin’ but a minnie ’longside some old whopperlulus in here.”