the sooner you may expect to see us gone and be able to enjoy
yourselves and your comfortable solitude once more."

"Now, just for saying that, Belle," uttered Dick reproachfully,
"I'm going to consider the revenge of burning two of your trout
in the pan."

"Mercy!" cried Belle Meade. "Are you going to cook the trout?"

"After you've eaten a trout cooked and served up by Dick Prescott,"
Dave declared, "you won't want them cooked by anyone else. Dick
is the one trout chef in this part of the country."

"Where did he learn?" teased Belle with a pretense of suspicion.

"Mr. Morton---Coach Morton, of our high school eleven---taught
Dick how to do it," Dave explained.

"Right here, young ladies---attention!" called Dr. Bentley, holding
up a warning finger. "If brook trout are as fine eating as they
used to be when I was a boy, then you simply won't be able to
keep it a secret that you've eaten some recently. Yet on one
point I must insist. None of you must be dishonorable enough
to name any spot within fifty miles of here as the scene of your
trout luncheon. If you let the secret out all the trout fishermen
in four counties will be swarming here to destroy all the fun
your young men friends are having. So, please remember! Utter,
dark, uncompromising secrecy!"

"Is it as bad as that?" asked Belle.