"Shall we go up-stream or down?" asked Lew, as he jointed his little rod
and fastened a hook to his line.

"Let's go down. We can't fish very long, and we know there is no brush
along the stream below us. We can try it up-stream to-morrow."

"To-morrow we'll fish on opposite sides of the run," said Lew as they
buckled on their bait boxes and started. "I don't see any way to cross now
and there's no time to hunt for a way."

"It's full of 'em. I'll bet on that," smiled Charley. "We'll catch a mess
in no time. Here goes with a worm."

He threaded one on his hook, crouched down, and cautiously drew near the
bank. A dexterous flick of his rod landed the worm fairly in the middle of
the run. Hardly had it hit the water before something grabbed it, and
Charley drew forth a flopping fish. But it proved to be only a fingerling.
In disgust Charley wet his hand and carefully unhooked the little fish.

"Shows they're here, anyway," he said, as he tossed the little trout back
into the stream.

But if they were there, they were strangely shy in making their presence
known. Rod after rod the hoys advanced, careful not to show themselves,
making their casts with greatest caution, and keeping as quiet as
possible. But no fish so much as smelled their bait. Again and again they
let their hooks float down into promising pools, but never a strike