“Four o’clock.”
“Only four? Gee, it’s day already, too. Come on.”
They piled their stuff into a boat, took a fish-pole from the eaves of the boat-house, found some bait in a pail, and rowed out as noiselessly as they could, and up along the shore. Joe rowed, while Bob kept casting from the stern. Finally he gave a yell, and Joe saw his line go under, and stopped rowing to watch the sport. He had a big one, all right, and it fought well. Bob was fifteen minutes in landing him, but had him in the boat finally, and hit him over the head.
The fish was as much as eighteen inches long, or more, and must have weighed four pounds.
“What’s it, anyhow?” Bob asked.
“Cut-throat trout,” said Joe. “I saw a man catch two or three at Lake McDermott. I’ll bet it’s good, too. Come on—we’ll have some breakfast! Good job you did landing him, too, without a reel. I thought your old line would bust two or three times.”
They rowed in to the heavily wooded shore, built a fire right by the lake, cleaned the fish, and Joe fried the choicest parts, with a few thin strips of bacon, coffee and biscuits.
Then they fell to. The grizzly, the restless night, the early rise—they’d really had only four hours of good sleep—were all forgotten while that hot, sizzling, delicious breakfast lasted.
“Say,” Bob remarked, as he swallowed his last mouthful, “I feel like licking my chops, the way our old cat does! You sure are some cook. I’m going to learn to cook, too, and go camping every summer. This is the life!”
“Bears and all,” Joe laughed.