“Shall we go up-stream or down?” asked Lew, as he jointed his little rod and fastened a hook to his line.

“Let’s go down. We can’t fish very long, and we know there is no brush along the stream below us. We can try it up-stream to-morrow.”

“To-morrow we’ll fish on opposite sides of the run,” said Lew as they buckled on their bait boxes and started. “I don’t see any way to cross now and there’s no time to hunt for a way.”

“It’s full of ’em. I’ll bet on that,” smiled Charley. “We’ll catch a mess in no time. Here goes with a worm.”

He threaded one on his hook, crouched down, and cautiously drew near the bank. A dexterous flick of his rod landed the worm fairly in the middle of the run. Hardly had it hit the water before something grabbed it, and Charley drew forth a flopping fish. But it proved to be only a fingerling. In disgust Charley wet his hand and carefully unhooked the little fish.

“Shows they’re here, anyway,” he said, as he tossed the little trout back into the stream.

But if they were there, they were strangely shy in making their presence known. Rod after rod the hoys advanced, careful not to show themselves, making their casts with greatest caution, and keeping as quiet as possible. But no fish so much as smelled their bait. Again and again they let their hooks float down into promising pools, but never a strike resulted.

They took the worms from their hooks and tried flies. But though their gaudy lures landed lightly on the water and danced in the rapids like real insects struggling for their lives, never a fish rose to grasp one.

“They won’t touch worms and they don’t want flies. I wonder what they do like,” grumbled Lew in disgust. “I wish we had some grasshoppers or crickets. Bet we’d get ’em then.”

They continued their efforts until it was almost dark. “We’ll have to be getting back to camp,” said Charley. “We can’t see much longer. We don’t want to be caught here in the dark. The flash-light is back at camp.”

“Here’s a fat grub,” said Lew, picking up a whiteworm out of a rotting log. “I’m going to make one more try. Maybe they want grubs.”

He slipped the worm on his hook and flicked it toward the brook. A second after it struck the water there was a splash, and Lew’s reel sang shrilly.

“Oh boy!” cried Lew, as he struck up his rod smartly. “I’ve got him.”

He had. The fish leaped clear of the water, but failed to loosen the line. Then it darted away like a shot, the line cutting through the water with a sharp, swishing sound.

“Hold him,” called Charley. “He’s heading for that snag.”

Lew put his thumb on the line and raised the tip of his rod higher. Under the tension the supple steel bent almost double. The fish stopped his rush, turned, and darted down-stream before Lew could reel in a foot of line.

Charley forgot all about his own fishing in his desire to help land the trout. “Don’t let him get under that rock,” he warned, coming close to the brook. “He’ll cut the line.”

Lew increased the tension on the line and the fish stopped short of the rock. For an instant the trout sulked and Lew reeled in rapidly.

“Guess I got him,” he cried triumphantly, as the fish was drawn near to the bank. But as he bent to grasp his prize there was a tremendous splash. The trout leaped high out of water, then darted off again like a flash. Lew had to give him line or lose him.

“He’s a whopper, Charley,” he cried. “Gee! I hope I don’t lose him!”

“Here’s a shallow place,” cried Charley. “Work him into it and we can grab him.”

Lew maneuvered the trout toward the shoal. Again and again the fish broke for the deeper water and Lew had to give him line. But each time he stopped the rush and patiently worked the fish back toward the shoal. At last the trout was fairly on the edge of it. Lew began to pull steadily on his line and slid the tired fish into shallow water. It flopped helplessly on the stones. Lew drew it to the bank and thrust a finger into its gills. In another second the fish was dangling in air.

“Great Caesar!” cried Charley excitedly. “Ain’t he a beaut! He’s the biggest trout I ever saw.”

“He’s the biggest one I ever caught,” answered Lew. “He’ll make a meal himself.”

“He’ll have to,” returned Charley. “We can’t fish another minute. It’s almost dark now.”

Lew slipped his finger down the throat of the gasping fish, and bent the creature’s head sharply back. The trout hung limp in his hand. Then the two fishermen made their way through the dusky forest to their camp, where Charley lighted a fire.

“I’ll just see what this fellow has been eating,” said Lew. “Maybe we can find out what sort of bait to use.” He opened his knife and slit the fish’s belly. “Crabs!” he cried, as his knife blade turned up the remains of a crayfish. “Now we know what they want.”

Soon Charley had a good bed of coals. Lew, meantime, cleaned the fish. Quickly it was cooked and eaten and the dishes washed. By this time it was altogether dark.

“Now we’ll get some crabs for to-morrow,” said Lew.

“Wonder how we can catch them?” queried Charley.

“What we need is a little dip-net. With that and the flash-light we could get a peck of them. These little streams are full of them.”

“Let’s try scooping them with a coffee-pot. The lid comes off. If we are careful, I believe it will answer.”

They took the lid off of the pot, and stepping to the brook turned the beam from their flash-light on the bottom of the run. The scene was fascinating. Feeling secure in the darkness, the living creatures in the brook had ventured abroad freely. Where the bright light of the sun would have disclosed only stones and sand, the little beam from the search-light revealed a myriad of moving shapes. Little minnows moved about in schools. Salamanders, large and small, crawled about among the rocks. Occasional trout were visible, lurking in the deeper holes, lying as motionless as sticks, or moving their tails slowly. Eels lay on the sandy spots. And lying still or crawling slowly among the stones were many crayfish. The water seemed to be filled with living objects.

“Gee whiz!” whispered Charley. “It’s like going to an aquarium and looking at the fish in glass cages. I never dreamed a brook could be so interesting.”

With the utmost caution they moved along the bank of the run, looking for crayfish of suitable size. Whenever they found one, Charley focused the flash-light on it, moving the beam so as to dazzle the creature and keep the space behind it in darkness. And Lew would slip the coffee-pot into the water and move it cautiously up to the crayfish, ready for a final, quick scoop. Sometimes he was successful and sometimes the intended victim escaped. Always the click of the metal pot against the stony bottom sent the little creatures in the water scurrying for cover. A second after Lew tried for the crayfish not a living thing was visible. So it was necessary to move on along the stream. From spot to spot the two boys proceeded, now getting a good bait, now missing one, but ever keenly enjoying the wonderful glimpses of the life in the brook. So they continued until they had a goodly number of crayfish.

“I believe that’s enough,” said Lew. “Let’s get back to camp. The fellows will be at their instruments at nine, ready to talk to us.” He glanced at his watch. “I had no idea,” he cried, “that it was so late. It’s almost nine now. We’ll have to hurry.”

So fascinating had been the glimpses of life in the brook that time had sped much faster than either boy realized.

They hurried back to their camp. They had taken the precaution to sling their grub high above ground on a piece of wire, but apparently nothing had tried to molest anything. Lew rekindled the fire in the little stone fireplace they had built and Charley uncovered the wireless instruments and sat down on one pack bag. The other he flung to Lew. Then he slipped the receivers on his head, threw over his switch, and sent the bright sparks flashing between the points of his spark-gap.

“CBWC CBWC CBWC CBC,” he rapped out. (Camp Brady Wireless Club, Charley Russell calling.)

Then he sat in silence, waiting for an answer. It came promptly.

“CBC CBC CBC I I I GA.” (Charley Russell We’re here. Go ahead.)

“Got ’em,” he cried. He answered and got a reply. “They want to know why we didn’t call up last night,” Charley said to Lew.

The fire in the little fireplace burned clear and bright, making a circle of light in the dark forest. Lew sat near the fire, cross-legged on his pack bag, thrusting an occasional stick into the flames. Charley sat by his instrument. Rapidly he pressed the key, and the sparks flew between the points of his gap like tiny flashes of horizontal lightning.

“Hello! Is that you, Willie?” rapped out Charley.

“Sure,” came the answer. “But we’re all here. Why didn’t you call up last night?”

“Couldn’t,” answered Charley. “Didn’t reach Old Ironsides camp site until long after dark. Forest fires have burned up all the timber there. Spring dried up, too. Had terrible time. Awful thirsty and no water to drink. Too tired to put up aerial.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the third valley east of Old Ironsides. Never been so far in the mountains before. Grand stand of timber here. Great trout stream. Full of big ones. Won’t touch worms or flies. Just been catching crabs to try to-morrow.”

“Get any yet?”

“One big one.”

“Have any adventures?”

“Not unless you call our experience in the burned timber an adventure. Toughest thing I’ve stacked up against in a long time. Timber burned for miles. No fish. Raccoons catching ’em out of the little pools. Had to come here to get any. What are you doing?”

“Everybody hard at work. I got a new job yesterday helping a fellow make a wireless outfit.”

“Where?”

“Right here. We’re making it in my shop.”

“Will you be there to-morrow?”

“Sure. All day.”

“We’ll call you.”

“Good! I’ll listen in every hour on the hour. Then you can get me almost any time.”

“Bully for you. We’re going to fish to-morrow, but we may catch so many in the morning that we won’t want to fish after dinner. I’ll let you know how we make out. Good luck to you all. Wish you were here. We’ll bring you a nice mess of fish, anyway. Good-night.”

“Good-night and good luck.”

“I wish they were here,” said Lew, as Charley covered the instruments to protect them from dampness, and moved over near his chum. “It doesn’t seem right to be in the forest without the whole crowd. This makes me think of our camp in the forest near the Elk City reservoir, when we were hot on the trail of the dynamiters. I’d hate to camp out at this time of year without any fire.”

“Well, let’s turn in. We want to get up early to-morrow and try those crabs. I’ll bet we get a bunch of trout.”

“Bet we do, too,” replied Charley.

Little did he dream that on the morrow he would be engaged in matters far more serious than catching trout.