“It’s the climate!” came from three mouths at once.
They now walked around the little rim, and on the west side of the island saw, at the base of the cone, a flat space of a few acres, with a tiny little pond in it.
“This is a volcano within a volcano, and that is a lake inside of a lake,” the doctor pointed out. “You don’t often find that. Now let’s eat some lunch, and go down and see if we can catch a fish or two for supper.”
They sat, hatless and coatless, in the shade of a little tree beside a snow-drift, and ate their lunch, finishing up the last of the water in the canteens, also. Then they descended to the boats. Mr. Stone mounted his camera in the bow of one boat, with Lester to row, while Spider rowed the other, the doctor sat as passenger, and Bennie got out the collapsible rod his uncle had brought, jointed it, and adjusted the tackle.
“Don’t seem fair to fish for trout with a spinner, as if they were nothing but pickerel,” he declared. “Wish we had some flies.”
“We want the fish to eat,” said the doctor, “and Stone wants a picture. We’ll use the surest way to get ’em. Now, Spider, row very slowly and just as steadily as you can, just offshore, around the rocks. Keep an even pace—that’s the main thing. If the spinner yanks, the fish get suspicious.”
Their boat crept softly along, with the Stones’ boat not far behind, Mr. Stone sitting by the camera as if it were a machine gun pointed at them.
Suddenly the line, trailing behind, tightened, Bennie gave a cry, there was a leap and a silver flash in the water astern, and the fight was on!
“Play him, play him!” the doctor shouted. “Keep on rowing, Spider. Give Stone a chance to shoot! Bring him up slowly, Bennie, don’t lose him!”
“I won’t lose him,” Bennie answered grimly. “Gee whiz, what a trout! He pulls like a whale!”