proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that a raccoon had crept up to the
edge of the water at a place where an old log thrust out. Here he could
lie flat, and fish with his paw for a stray small bass that happened to
pass too close to the shore for its safety.

The third set of tracks, differing materially from both of the others,
Max pronounced the trail of a sly mink; which, with the fisher, is
perhaps the boldest and most destructive enemy of the brook trout known.

While these two were amusing themselves in this way, and Owen making
notes in his little book all the while, Steve was using the rod and line
to some advantage. Perched on the end of another convenient trunk of a
fallen tree that projected out over the end of the bank, he managed to
secure quite a delightful mess of bass from the passing river--"taking
toll," Steve called it.

Toby Jucklin seemed to find his greatest pleasure in taking cat naps. He
complained of losing a heap of sleep on the preceding night; and as
there was no telling what the second might bring forth, he believed in
taking time by the forelock, as he called it.

And Bandy-legs, well, he was sitting there for a long time, working
industriously with a pad of paper and a lead pencil; and seemed to be so
wrapped up in whatever he was doing that he did not notice Max silently
approach, bend down, and secure one of the sheets of paper he had
already filled with his crabbed writing.

Really Max had begun to suspect that their camp-mate must be writing a
story, founded on that strange cabin, with its lichen-covered walls, and
the roof that seemed to be sprouting green grass with the moss.