CHAPTER VI.
THE LOST TRAIL.
"'Twas night--the skies were cloudless blue, And all around was hushed and still, Save paddle of the light canoe, And wailing of the whippowill." On that sunny afternoon, the fish in a particular locality of a tributary of the Mississippi did not take the bait very well.

The spot to which we refer was that immediately surrounding Teddy, whose patience was well-nigh exhausted.

There he sat for several tedious hours, but had secured only two nibbles at his line, neither of which proved to be anything more.
"Begorrah, but it must be they'se frightened by meself, when that ould scalliwag give me a fling into the stream.

Jabers! _wasn't_ it done nately.

Hallo! there's a bite, not bigger, to be sure, than a lady's fut, but a bull-pout it is I know." He instantly arose to his feet, as if he were about to spring in the water, and stood leaning over and scanning the point where his line disappeared in the stream, with an intense interest which the professional angler alone can appreciate.