got the reply that he was waiting for.

"Aw, what's the use of going away up there? And not get half the fish?
Why, you can take the train at the ferry and in the morning you are
right in the middle of the best fishing in the State. Buh-lieve _me_,
it'll be Feather River for mine, if I can make the change I want to!
Them that have got the money to travel on, can take the far-off
places--me for the fish, bo, every day in the week." He took up his
tray and went down the car, offering his wares to the bored, frowsy
passengers who wanted only to reach journey's end.

The next round he made, he stopped again beside Jack. They talked of
fishing--Jack saw to that!--and Jack learned that Lake Almanor was
nothing more nor less than an immense reservoir behind a great dam put
in by a certain power company at a cost that seemed impossible. The
reservoir had been made by the simple process of backing up the water
over a large mountain valley. You could look across the lake and see
Mount Lassen as plain as the nose on your face, the peanut butcher
declared relishfully. And the trout in that artificial lake passed all
belief.

Every time the boy passed, he stopped for a few remarks. Pound by
pound the trout in Lake Almanor grew larger. Sentence by sentence Jack
learned much that was useful, a little that was needful. There were
several routes to Lake Almanor, for instance. One could get in by way
of Chico, but the winter snow had not left the high summits, so that
route was unfeasible for the time being. The best way just now was by
the way of Quincy, a little town up near the head of Feather River
Canyon. The fare was only seven or eight dollars, and since the season
had opened one could get reduced rates for the round trip. That was