“Wor-rums?”
His voice came faintly back,—“Dig near the water.” We dug near the water for another half hour. Then we gave it up, and hot and discouraged made for the empty cabin on the hill, hoping someone might have returned and could advise us. The house, though open, and invitingly adorned with beautiful Apache baskets, a rarity since the Apaches became too lazy to make them, was as empty as before. The tinkle of the telephone which suddenly sounded, emphasized its loneliness.
Toby and I had the same idea, but always more active, she had the receiver down while I was crossing the room.
A forest ranger twenty miles away was making his accustomed round by ’phone, tracing the spread of a forest fire whose smoke we could dimly see.
“Hello!” he said, “Hello!”
“Hello,” replied a female voice, in cultured Cambridge tones. “Where do you dig for worms?”
But a forest ranger learns to be surprised at nothing. Instantly his reply came back, “Look under the stones at the river’s edge.”
“Thank you,” said Toby, hanging up the receiver.
Thanks to his advice, before sundown we caught a dozen dainty brook trout, beauties all, which, when dipped in cracker crumbs and lemon juice, and fried in butter over hot coals, were as good as they were beautiful.
It was the first time I ever fished by telephone.