But just ahead of them Plum Run had widened out once more to real
river size, its waters penned back by concrete, rock and timber dam,
with Parry's Mill on the east bank.

"Land me on the other side, above the big cottonwood," decided
Frank. "There's a weedy little bight up there where I predict a two-
pound bass in twenty minutes."

"I'll try the stretch just below, working toward the dam, I guess.
How about you, Jerry!" asked Dave.

"I'll stay with the boat awhile, I reckon. Where away, boatman?"

"Dam," grunted Tod.

"Not swearing, I take it?" inquired Jerry.

"No--fishing there."

Dave and Frank were dropped out at the cottonwood, where they were
soon exchanging much sage advice concerning likely spots and proper
bait. Jerry and Tod chuckled as they rowed away. Tod himself was
keen on still fishing with worms or grubs; he liked to sit and dream
while the bait did the work; but his quarreling with Dave and Frank
was mostly make-believe. Jerry, the best fisherman of the four,
believed, as he said, in "making the bait fit the fish's mouth." His
tackle-box held every kind of hook and lure; his steel rod and
multiple reel were the best Timkin's Sporting Goods Store in town
could furnish; they had cost him a whole summer's savings.