"Well, rather! What a pool, all unspoiled, all unfished!"

"Does no one fish up here?"

"Yes, the Police come at times from the Fort. And Wyckham, our neighbor.
And old man Thatcher, a born angler, though he says it's not sport, but
murder."

"Why not sport?"

"Why? Old Thatcher said to me one day, 'Them fish would climb a tree to
get at your hook. That ain't no sport.'"

But sport, and noble sport, they found it through the long afternoon,
so that, when through the scraggy pines the sun began to show red in the
western sky, a score or more lusty, glittering, speckled Rainbow trout
lay on the grass beside the shady pool.

Tired with their sport, they lay upon the grassy sward, luxuriating in
the warm sun.

"Now, Allan," cried Mandy, "I'll make tea ready if you get some wood for
the fire. You ought to be thankful I taught you how to use the ax. Do
you remember?"

"Thankful? Well, I should say. Do YOU remember that day, Mandy?"

"Remember!" cried the girl, with horror in her tone. "Oh, don't speak of
it. It's too awful to think of."