oon was before Jack Ogden, when he came out at the
water's edge, near the dam, across from the mill. That was there, big
and red and rusty-looking; and the dam was there; and above them was
the mill-pond, spreading out over a number of acres, and ornamented
with stumps, old logs, pond-lilies, and weeds. It was a fairly good
pond, the best that Cocahutchie Creek could do for Crofield, but Jack's
face fell a little as he looked at it.

"There are more fellows than fish here," he said to himself, with an
air of disgust.

There was a boy at the end of the dam near him, and a boy in the middle
of it, and two boys at the flume, near the mill. There were three
punts out on the water, and one of them had in it a man and two boys,
while the second boat held but one man, and the third contained four.
A big stump near the north shore supported a boy, and the old snag
jutting out from the south shore held a boy and a man.

There they all were, sitting perfectly still, until, one after another,
each rod and line came up to have its hook and bait examined, to see
whether or not there had really been a bite.

"I'm fairly crowded out," remarked Jack. "Those fellows have all the
good places. I'll have to go somewhere else; where'll I go?"

He studied that problem for a full minute, while every fisherman there
turned to look at him, and then turned back to watch his line.

"I guess I'll try down stream," said Jack. "Nobody ever caught
anything down there, and nobody ever goes there, but I s'pose I might
as well try it, just for once."

He turned away along the track over which he had come. He did not
pause at the road and bridge, but went on down the further bank of the
Cocahutchie. It was a pretty stream of water, and it spread out wide
and shallow, and rippled merrily among stones and bowlders and clumps
of willow and alder for nearly half a mile. Gradually, then, it grew
narrower, quieter, deeper, and wore a sleepy look which made it seem
more in keeping with quiet old Crofield.

"The hay's about ready to cut," said Jack, as he plodded along the
path, near the water's edge, through a thriving meadow of clover and
timothy. "There's always plenty of work in haying time. Hullo! What
grasshoppers! Jingo!"

As he made the last exclamation, he clapped his hand upon his trousers
pocket.

"If I didn't forget to go in and get my sinker! Never did such a thing
before in all my life. What's the use of trying to fish wi