the boys made use of stout, withy vines as substitutes.

And, strange as it may seem, they actually were successful. The little
stream proved to be full to overflowing with fish, small to be sure, but
still eatable.

"Gee, I never saw anything like it!" cried Roy as he excitedly pulled out
one fish after another. "They seem to be eager to be caught. And to think
that we actually scoffed at the idea."

"That's what genius always has to bear," put in Allen, resignedly, while
Betty gave him a side-wise glance from under her long lashes.

"Oh, don't we hate ourself," she chided softly, as she handed him more
bait. "You really shouldn't, Allen--"

"What! Hate myself?" he demanded, letting a fish slip back into the water
in his preoccupation. "I'd just as soon--as long as you don't!"

Betty laughed happily. It was so good to be there, unbelievably catching
fish, with Allen beside her saying delightful--and foolish--things.

Then she thought of the parting that must inevitably come and her bright
face clouded. Allen saw the shadow and leaned toward her anxiously.

"What is it, dear?" he whispered softly. "Have I done anything?"

"No," she answered with a little smile, half-whimsical, half-wistful. "You
haven't done anything. It's what you're going to do that hurts."