"Paddle slowly right across the lake, Danny," begged Tom, watching
his trolling line.

From the camp the boys watched until they grew tired of the monotony.
Reade did not seem destined to secure a single "strike" from
bass that afternoon.

"At half-past four o'clock," proposed Darrin, "I'll go down to
the old pier and see what I can do toward catching a string of
perch for to-night."

"I'll go with you," nodded Hazelton.

"All right," agreed Dick. "Greg and I will get in the water and
wood, and see to whatever else we're to have for supper. I don't
believe Tom will bring us anything."

Nor did Reade himself believe it. For two solid hours Dan Dalzell
paddled lazily wherever his skipper told him to. The nearest
that Tom seemed destined to get a "strike" was when his hook caught
in the weeds.

At last they were some distance out on the lake, perhaps a hundred
and fifty yards from shore. Reade, wholly discouraged, was about
to give the order to make for camp.

Turning about in the canoe, Reade discovered that Dalzell was
in a brown study, slowly lifting his paddle and lifting it out
again, but without watching his course.