he keeper arrived at the
clump. Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more
and he would have passed, when, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on
the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point at
the foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and
touch told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour. Tom
crouched lower along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump.
"If I could only get the rod hidden," thought he, and began gently
shifting it to get it alongside him; "willow-trees don't throw out
straight hickory shoots twelve feet along, with no leaves, worse luck."
Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of the rod, and
then of Tom's hand and arm.

"Oh, be up ther' be 'ee?" says he, running under the tree. "Now you come
down this minute."

"Tree'd at last," thinks Tom, making no answer, and keeping as close as
possible, but working away at the rod, which he takes to pieces: "I'm in
for it, unless I can starve him out." And then he begins to meditate
getting along the branch for a plunge and scramble to the other side;
but the small branches are so thick, and the opposite bank so difficult,
that the keeper will have lots of time to get round by the ford before
he can get out, so he gives that up. And now he hears the keeper
beginning to scramble up the trunk. That will never do; so he scrambles
himself back to where his branch joins the trunk, and stands with lifted
rod.

"Hullo, Velveteens, mind your fingers if you come any higher."

The keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says, "Oh! be you,
be it, young measter? Well, here's luck. Now I tells 'ee to come down at
once, and 't'll be best for 'ee."

"Thank 'ee, Velveteens, I'm very comfortable," said Tom, shortening the
rod in his hand, and preparing for battle.

"Werry well, please yourself," says the keeper, descending however to
the ground again, and taking his seat on the bank; "I bean't in no
hurry, so you med take your time. I'll larn 'ee to gee honest folk names
afore I've done with 'ee."

"My luck as usual," thinks Tom; "what a fool I was to give him a black.
If I'd called him 'keeper' now I might get off. The return match is all
his way."

The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill, and light it,
keeping an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately across the branch,
looking at keeper--a pitiful sight for men and fishes. The more h