He was all enthusiasm, but the art of landing a trout appeared to him to be one of the most difficult feats in the world.
"I don't believe I'll ever land enough to fill a frying pan," he said dejectedly.

"Dick, the fellows are depending upon you.
Take this pole and use it for the next hour." Later in the forenoon Greg had one small trout on a stick he had cut and trimmed for himself.

Dave Darrin looked almost triumphant as he displayed three of the speckled ones.

Both stared in envy at Dick's string of thirty-four trout.
"Of course it'll take a few days of patient study of the game to enable you to make big catches," was Dick's consoling assurance.
"I'd put in all summer, if I were sure I could master the trick in the end," said Dave.
Greg said nothing, but felt less resolute about it than Darrin did.
"Why, it's only fifteen minutes before noon," cried Dave, glancing at his watch.
"Then it's high time to be going back," nodded Dick, "in case the fellows are depending upon us for their meal.

If Tom has a lot of bass, though, we can store these trout in our new ice box---the cave." "And let the Man with the Haunting Face slip in there, after dark, and help himself!" grumbled Darry.