Dave and Harry presently came along with the cart. Dick once
more went after his prospective purchaser.

"What have you now---more bass?" asked the hotel man, eyeing the
heavy box on the cart. Water was dripping from the ice and running
to the ground.

"No, sir; just look!" begged Prescott, lifting some jute bagging
from the top of the box, then digging down through the top layer
of cracked ice.

"Brook trout?" cried the hotel man. "Where on earth did you get
them?"

"We have a factory where we turn 'em out nights, sir," volunteered
Dave, with a grin.

"What do you want for them---same price as for the bass?" demanded
the proprietor.

"We could hardly afford to do that, you know," Prescott replied.
"Down in a town like Gridley these brook trout ought to retail
for a dollar and a half a pound. We'll offer them to you, sir,
at sixty cents a pound---flat."

"Take 'em away!" ordered the hotel man, with an air of finality.
This time it was plain that he did not propose to purchase.

"You won't be sorry after we're gone, will you?" asked Dick politely.