DICK MAKES FISH TALK


"That's the longest eight miles I've ever done," muttered Hazelton.

"The map is wrong. It's a hundred and eight," affirmed Dave.

"No matter, if the trip turns out to have been wisely planned,"
remarked Dick, a wistful look coming into his eyes. "Of course,
I may have overshot the mark."

"That's a chance we had to take," declared Dave promptly. "We
won't be disappointed if we find that we haven't made such a big
move, after all."

The three high school boys had halted in the shade of some trees
by the highway. A quarter of a mile away, around the head of
the body of water known as the third lake, stood a handsome hotel,
the St. Clair Lake House.

It was now nearly nine o'clock in the morning. Dick and his two
comrades had been on the way, over the rough road, propelling
the heavily laden push cart, from which water now dripped from
melting ice. The boys had built their ice-house, or ice-box,
whichever one preferred to call it, and they had stocked it with
ice from the cave. Dick, Dave and Greg had whipped up and down
the stream in turn; Tom and Dan had trolled the lake for bass.
As fast as the fish were brought in they were stored on the ice.
After two days of hard fishing the boys arose before four o'clock
in the morning, for Dick was now ready to test his venture.