"Time to grub, anyhow. I'll give them a rest for a while. They'll likely
be on the job again soon," he told himself as he waded ashore.

A draw here ran down to the river, and its sunny hillside tempted him to
eat his lunch farther up.

Into the little basin in which he found himself the sun had poured
shafts of glory to make a very paradise of color. Down by the riverside
the willows were hesitating between green and bronze. Russet and brown
and red peppered the slopes, but shades of yellow predominated in the
gulch itself.

The angler ate his sandwiches leisurely, and stretched his lithe body
luxuriantly on the ground for a _siesta_. When he resumed his occupation
the sun had considerably declined from the meridian. The fish were again
biting, and he landed two in as many minutes.

The bed of the river had been growing steeper, and at the upper entrance
of the little park he came to the first waterfall he had seen. Above
this, on the opposite side, was a hole that looked inviting. He decided
that a dead tree lying across the river would, at a pinch, serve for a
bridge, and he ventured upon it. Beneath his feet the rotting bark gave
way. He found himself falling, tried desperately to balance himself, and
plunged head first into the river.

Coming to the surface, he caught at a rock which jutted from the
channel. At this point the water was deep and the current swift. Were he
to let loose of the boulder he must be swept over the fall before he
could reach the shore. Nor could he long maintain his position against