er that had been
cooked it seemed as though their cup of happiness must be complete.
Everything tasted wonderfully fine to the boys, because they had their
appetites along with them. But the surroundings no doubt had a good deal
to do with it, for there was something of a tang in the air, it being
only April; and from the woods arose a dank odor of rotting logs and
leaf mold that was very pleasant to these lads.

Then the wood they were burning was for the most part hickory, ash or
oak, hard stuff every inch of it; and the fumes that were wafted into
their faces with each change of wind, while making their eyes blink and
smart, were mighty gratifying to their sense of smell.

Those who really love the woods never pass through city streets, and get
a whiff of hard-wood smoke, but what they draw in a big breath, and
immediately picture the camp fire burning, with good chums seated around
enjoying a tempting meal; and the boardinghouse spread looks less
appetizing than ever after that glimpse into Paradise.

"I hope all of you have brought some lines and hooks along," said Max,
after the first edge had been taken from their hunger, and they felt
disposed to talk more or less; "because, while the bass season won't
open until the end of next month we might pick up some big pickerel in
that pond I spoke of. I've heard tall yarns about their size there, and
the savage way they take hold."

"Fresh fish wouldn't go bad," Steve went on to say, reflectively, as he
took a second helping of fried potatoes from one of the fryingpans, and
then fished out another nicely browned sausage from the other.

"But seems to me it's pretty early to expect 'em to take hold,"
Bandy-legs ventured to say, as he filled his tin cup from the coffee
pot, and then added some condensed milk of the kind known as evaporated
cream, because it has not been sweetened in order to keep it.

"W-w-what, for p-p-pickerel?" exclaimed Toby. "Why, they're ready to
b-b-bite any old t-t-time, ain't they, Max?"

"I never knew the time when they wouldn't grab at bait," the other
replied. "You know they're built on the order of a pirate, and that's
what a pickerel or a pike is, a regular buccaneer. Why, I've been out on
the ice on a big lake in winter where dozens of little cabins and tents
had been built, each sheltering a pickerel fisherman, who had as many as
a dozen lines rigged through holes cut in the thick ice."

"I've heard something about that kind of fis