"We might go fishing," said somebody.
"Mel won't; he's afraid of losing his biggest trout."
"No, I'm not," said Mel, quite soberly. "I say, fellows, what if Clint Parsons didn't take that fish after all?"
"Then I'd say we'd used him awfully mean," declared Wat Emerson, tossing a sops-o'-wine core over the wall. "And we'd be a set of scoundrels, and you'd be the biggest one amongst us, Mel."
"But he did, didn't he?"
"Looks about like it," answered Mel. "Say we go up on Tank's Island and cook our own dinners. Uncle Ben Sperry's bateau'll hold us all, and there's a sandy bottom at the head of the island—just the place for a swim."
"But it isn't half a mile from the Falls."
"Well, there isn't any danger; let's go."
"Don't tell any of the other fellows," said Mel; "the bateau won't hold any more."
But next morning they found the party was to be increased by two, because Mel could not withstand the pleadings of his small twin brothers.