eaves. He was whistling, softly--an
indication that he was happy. He was sunburned, freckle-faced, hatless,
coatless. He wore only a thin and faded cotton blouse, the sleeves of it
rolled up, and a pair of trousers, rolled up above his knees--for
convenience rather than to protect them, for he had waded in, waist
deep.

Tied about him was a piece of tarred rope, from which there dangled the
luckless victims of his skill, three pickerel. That they were freshly
caught was evidenced by their flopping vigorously now and then, as the
boy entered the deeper water, and opening their big, savage looking
mouths as though they would like to swallow their captor.

A splash out yonder, just beside the clump of arrow-shaped pickerel
weed! Tim Reardon's heart beat joyfully, as he turned and saw the
ripples receding from the spot where the fish had jumped. He swung his
long rod, dropped the troll skilfully near the blue blossoms that
adorned the clump of weed, and drew it temptingly past. The spoon
revolved rapidly, gleaming with alternate red and silver, the bright
feathers that clothed the gang of hooks at the end trailing after.

Another splash, and a harder one. Tim Reardon "struck" and the fish was
fast. Now it lashed the water furiously, fighting for its life. But it
was not a big fish, and Tim Reardon lifted it clear of the water so that
it swung in where he could clutch it with eager hands. Grasping it just
back of the gills, he disengaged the hook cautiously, avoiding the sharp
rows of teeth that lined the long jaws. He slung the pickerel on the
line, and whistled gleefully.

It was a royal day for fishing; with just a thin shading of clouds to
shield the water from the glare of sun; the water still and smooth; the
shadows very black in the shady places.

It is safe to say, no one in all Benton knew the old stream like Tim
Reardon. He fished it day after day from morn till evening, before and
after school hours, and now in the vacation at all times. Tom Harris and
Bob White knew it as canoeists; but Tim Reardon, following the ins and
outs of its shores for miles above the Ellison dam, knew every little
turn and twist in its shore.

He knew the places where the pickerel hid; where the water was swift, or
shallow, or choked with weeds, and where to leave the shore and make a
detour through the grain fields past these places. There were deep pools
where the pickerel seldom rose to the troll, but asked to have their
dinner