So we gathered a bushel of spruce-tips, piled them on the bank of a
little stream, then built a miniature stockade around the bait, a foot
high. I roofed this with hemlock, then laboriously whittled out and
adjusted a swinging shutter for the entrance, setting it on springy
twigs.

"The dingue, you know, was supposed to live in the water," she said,
kneeling beside me over our trap.

I took her little hand and thanked her for the information.

"Doubtless," she said, enthusiastically, "a dingue will come out of
the lake to-night to feed on our spruce-tips. Then," she added, "we've
got him."

"True!" I said, earnestly, and pressed her fingers very gently.

Her face was turned a little away; I don't remember what she said; I
don't remember that she said anything. A faint rose-tint stole over
her cheek. A few moments later she said: "You must not do that again."

It was quite late when we strolled back to camp. Long before we came
in sight of the twin tents we heard a deep voice bawling our names. It
was Professor Smawl, and she pounced upon Dorothy and drove her
ignominiously into the tent.

"As for you," she said, in hollow tones, "you may explain your
conduct at once, or place your resignation at my disposal."