The next instant he had to grab his own rod with both hands, while the
cord whistled out over the reel. He had made a "strike," and the frantic
plunges at the other end of the line told that he had hooked a fighter.
Back and forth he darted, until it seemed as though the slender rod would
break under the strain. Bert's fighting blood responded to the challenge,
and he played his opponent with all the skill and judgment in which he
was a past master. It was fully ten minutes before, carefully shortening
his line, he was able to land on the bank a magnificent striped bass.

From that time on, the sport was fast and furious. The lake was full of
fish, and it had been visited so rarely that they had not learned the
danger of the bait that trailed so temptingly before them. In half an
hour they had caught more than they could eat and carry home, and Tom,
whose appalling appetite was clamoring for satisfaction, suggested that
they wind up and pull for shore. Dick was nothing loath, and the canoe,
more heavily loaded than when they had started out, glided shoreward
until its nose touched the bank where Bert was standing, surrounded by
a host of finny beauties that bore witness to his skill.

They fastened the boat securely and spent a few minutes comparing their
catches. Then they gathered a heap of dry brush and burned it until they
had a glowing bed of embers. They had no frying pan, but Bert improvised
an ingenious skillet of tough oaken twigs, that, held high enough above
the fire, promised to broil the fish to a turn.

Tom, who, in accordance with the agreement, had nothing to do, stretched
himself out luxuriously and "bossed the job."

"See that you don't burn the fish, my man," he said to Bert, affecting a
languid drawl. "And you, my good fellow," he added, turning to Dick, "be