rs to fry it?"

"That mosquito?"

"No, you idiot! A fish-wafer."

"You'd better get busy and fry a few trout."

"Where are they?"

"In some of these devilish brooks. It's up to you to catch a few."

"Didn't I try?" demanded Sayre; "didn't I fish all the afternoon?"

"All I know about it is that you came back here last night with a
farthest north story and no fish. You're an explorer, all right."

"Look here, Curtis! Don't you believe I saw her?"

"Sure. When I fall asleep I sometimes see the same kind--all winners,
too."

"I was _not_ asleep!"

"You said yourself that you were dead tired of waiting for a trout to
become peevish and bite."

"I was. But I didn't fall asleep. I did see that girl. I watched her for
several minutes. . . . Breakfast's ready."

Langdon looked mournfully at the flapjacks. He picked up one which was
only half scorched, buttered it, poured himself a cup of sickly coffee,
and began to eat with an effort.

"You say," he began, "that you first noticed her when you were talking
out loud to yourself to keep yourself awake?"

"While waiting for a trout to bite," said Sayre, swallowing a lump of
food violently. "I was amusing myself by repeating aloud my poem,
_Amourette_:

"Where is the girl of yesterday?
The kind that snuggled up?
In vain I walk along Broadway--
Where is the girl of yesterday,
Whose pretty----"

"All right! Go on with the facts!"

"Well, that's what I was repeating," said Sayre, tartly, "and it's as
good verse as you can do!"

Langdon bit into another flapjack with resignation. Sayre swallowed a cup
of coffee, dodging an immersed June-beetle.

"I was just repeating that poem aloud," he said, shuddering. "The woods
were very still--except for the flies and mosquitoes; sunlight lay warm
and golden on the mossy tree-trunks----"

"Cut it. You're not on space rates."

"I was trying to give you a picture of the scene----"

"You did; the local colour about the mosquitoes convinced me. Go on about
the girl."

An obstinate expression hardened Sayre's face; the breeze stirred a lock
on his handsome but prematurely bald forehead; he gazed menacingly at his
companion through his gold pince-nez.

"I'll blue-pencil my own stuff," he said. "If you want to hear how it
happened you'll listen to the literary part, too."

"Go on, then," said Langdon, sullenly.

"I will. . . . The sunlight fell softly upon the trees of the ancient
wood; b