“Huh! You just wait,” retorted Jo, fishing into his sack. “How does that strike you?” and he pulled out his champion.
“Let’s measure,” said Tom. Jo’s fish was a half inch longer, and he also had two more than his brother, for Tom had caught only eight.
They ate their lunch on a little gravelly knoll where there were some pine trees not far from the stream.
What with a couple of trout, backed by what they had brought, and the cold water from the stream, they fared very well, indeed.
“I reckon we will do better than Jim and Juarez,” said Tom. “I don’t believe that they will get anything.”
“We ought to do well this afternoon,” said Jo.
And they did. By four o’clock they had a joint catch of thirty-five trout, and decided that was enough for the present. At Jo’s suggestion they decided to give Jeems a surprise. So they approached the hill with due care, making their attack on the side towards the slope of the mountain which was best protected. They began their stealthy crawl up through the pine trees, until they came in sight of the camp.
The first evidence they saw of Jeems was his feet sticking out, being quite prominent in their blue socks with white tips, he having removed his boots for comfort. His back was against a big pine, and he was peacefully asleep. Before he could move a rope was passed quickly around his chest and he was bound firmly to the tree by unseen hands.
“Help!” he yelled. “Tom, Jo, come here quick, they’ve got me!”