resulted.

They took the worms from their hooks and tried flies. But though their
gaudy lures landed lightly on the water and danced in the rapids like real
insects struggling for their lives, never a fish rose to grasp one.

"They won't touch worms and they don't want flies. I wonder what they do
like," grumbled Lew in disgust. "I wish we had some grasshoppers or
crickets. Bet we'd get 'em then."

They continued their efforts until it was almost dark. "We'll have to be
getting back to camp," said Charley. "We can't see much longer. We don't
want to be caught here in the dark. The flash-light is back at camp."

"Here's a fat grub," said Lew, picking up a whiteworm out of a rotting
log. "I'm going to make one more try. Maybe they want grubs."

He slipped the worm on his hook and flicked it toward the brook. A second
after it struck the water there was a splash, and Lew's reel sang shrilly.

"Oh boy!" cried Lew, as he struck up his rod smartly. "I've got him."

He had. The fish leaped clear of the water, but failed to loosen the
line. Then it darted away like a shot, the line cutting through the water
with a sharp, swishing sound.

"Hold him," called Charley. "He's heading for that snag."

Lew put his thumb on the line and raised the tip of his rod higher. Under
the tension the supple steel bent almost double. The fish stopped his