he discharge of a shotgun
close at hand made him jump with astonishment. Still more amazed was he
to see the dangling fish fall between the alder branches to the ground.
Then, before he had recovered from his astonishment, a youth dashed
forward and seized it.

The youth was Benny Ellison.

Little Tim's blood was up.

"Think you're smart, don't you," he cried, "shooting my fish. Here,
gimme that. What do you think you're doing?"

But Benny Ellison, holding the big pickerel away from Tim, showed no
intention of giving it up.

"Who told you it was your fish?" he replied, sneeringly. "I shot it.
It's mine."

"Give me back that fish!" repeated Little Tim. "I'll tell Harvey on you.
You'll get another ducking."

He seized Benny Ellison by an arm, but the other, bigger and stronger,
pushed him back roughly.

"Go on," he said, and added, while a grin overspread his fat face,
"That's no fish, anyway. Whoever heard of catching fish in trees? That's
a bird, Timmy, and I shot it. See its tail-feathers?"

He swung the fish and gave Little Tim a slap over the head with the tail
of it, that brought the tears to Tim's eyes.

"Go on, tell Harvey," he said. "This bird's mine."

Dangling the pickerel by the gills, and shouldering his gun, he pushed
on upstream through the alders, leaving Little Tim angry and smarting.

"I'll get even with you, Benny Ellison," called Tim; but the other only
laughed and went on.

Tim slowly unjointed his rod, tied the pieces together in a compact
bundle, gathered up his string of remaining fish and started homeward.
When he had gone on about a quarter of a mile, however, he suddenly
paused and stood for a moment, considering something. Then he looked
about him, stepped into a little thicket where he hid his pole and fish
carefully from sight, then retraced his steps upstream.

He went on through the alders and brush, till presently he heard the
report of the gun. Guided by the sound, he continued on for a little
way, then shinned into the branches of a tall cedar, heavily wooded, and
from there got a view upstream. Several rods away, he could see the
alders move, thrust aside by Benny Ellison. Little Tim seated himself
amid the branches, safely hidden, and waited.

Some ten or fifteen minutes passed, and then the snapping of underbrush
told of the approach of Benny Ellison, on his return. That his shot had
told was evidenced by another pickerel which he carried, hung by the
gills on the