"There's another bird on the log for you, Benny," called Tim. Then,
picking up his own fish, he scampered. Benny Ellison's slower steps
could not have equalled the pace set by those bare feet, had he been
ashore. By the time he was on land again, Little Tim, his pole and
string of fish regained, was half-way to the Ellison dam.

A voice stopped him as he was emerging on to the main road, just below
Witham's Half Way House. He turned and saw Bess Thornton.

"Hello, Tim," she called, "what's the matter? Anybody after you? My, but
I guess you've been running fast."

Tim Reardon, wiping his face with his sleeves, told her what had
happened. The girl danced with glee, while her bright eyes sparkled.

"Oh, goody!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't I just like to have seen that fat
old Benny Ellison try to catch you. My, but you always have the luck,
don't you? That's a grand string of fish."

Tim Reardon, unstringing two of the pickerel from the rope, transferred
them to a twig of alder that he cut from a near by bush, and handed them
to her.

"I've got more'n I want," he said.

"Thanks," said the girl, and added, "Say, Tim, I'll tell you something.
I saw four trout in the brook this morning, and one of them was that
long."

She measured with her hands, held a little more than a foot apart.

"Where was it--about a mile above your house?" queried Tim.

The girl nodded.

"In the pool where the big tree's fallen across," she said.

"I guess he's the big one I've tried to get, a lot of times," said Tim.
"But I haven't seen him lately. I thought he'd gone down into Ellison's
pool. I'd like to see him."

He was a fisherman by nature, was Little Tim, and the very mention of
the big trout made his eyes twinkle.

"Come on up," said Bess Thornton.

Tim hesitated. "It's most too late," he replied. "I'll be late to supper
now, if I don't run."

"Oh, never mind," she urged. "I'll show you just where I saw him. I just
as lieve you'd catch him."

The invitation was too much for Tim, and he started off across the
fields with Bess Thornton.

"That fish'll never bite," he said, as they went along; "I've tried him
with worms and grasshoppers and wasps and crickets, and that fly made of
feathers that Jack gave me. He knows a whole lot, that old trout. Guess
he's a school-teacher, he knows so much."

"I'm going to catch him, anyway, if you don't," said the girl. "I know
what I'm going to do."

"What's that?" asked Tim, in a tone